


Smoke and Mirrors

by LateToTheGameDS



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Game Dialogue, Hand Jobs, Headcanons but mostly backed up with game sources, Insanity, M/M, Masturbation, Nightmare Fuel as come and also lube because I do what I want, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Slow Burn, Tickling, Video Game Mechanics, Vivisection (sorta)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 113,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28357113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateToTheGameDS/pseuds/LateToTheGameDS
Summary: Wilson aids an indisposed Maxwell, and discovers his old enemy has a debilitating weakness.Then it's all downhill from there.Edit: updating the tags as I go.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Comments: 236
Kudos: 139





	1. Bare King

**Author's Note:**

> Long time listener, first time caller. Decided to post this because fuck me.
> 
> There's not enough smut of these two, and even less tickling.
> 
> Maxwell also jizzes Nightmare Fuel I don't make the rules.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson's bedside manner leaves much to be desired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Science compels me to lick it."
> 
> \--Wilson on Salt Crystals, Don't Starve Together
> 
> (That's how he knows what mirrors taste like.)

“Say pal, you don’t look so good.”

Maxwell gives an irritated groan from his fur roll. “Har har, Higgsbury.”

Wilson’s smirk fades as he kneels beside the magician’s limp form. Maxwell looks downright decrepit, as if the slightest breeze would reduce him to dust. (And as much as Wilson had hated the man, he would rather not relive that experience. Stumbling upon the odd skeleton in the Constant was one thing, but watching a person rapidly decay into one, flesh rotting and sloughing off before one’s eyes, was another.) “What happened to you? You seemed fine earlier today. Was it the hound attack? Did you use too much of that Shadow. . .stuff?”

“If by ‘Shadow stuff,’ as you've so eloquently put it, you mean overtaxed myself by summoning too many clones in succession because you were faffing about while we were under attack, then yes, that seems to be exactly what has happened.” Maxwell closes his eyes. “Now if you don’t mind, I wish to—what are you doing!?”

Wilson is unbuttoning Maxwell’s suitcoat. “I'm just making sure you didn’t miss any injuries.”

Maxwell’s arms twitch, whether to cover himself as his gaunt torso is bared or to push this brazen oaf away is uncertain, but ultimately his limbs remain limp. “You buffoon, I am perfectly capable—if you think that I don’t know whether or not—!”

“Oh, quit your bellyaching, will you? If you'd just ask for help once in a while, I wouldn’t need to do this in the first place.”

Maxwell grunts as Wilson pokes and prods, wishing he had the strength to slap his hands away. But of course, beyond a reflexive twitch or two, his cursed appendages lay uselessly at his sides. “Because you were _so_ helpful when we were besieged by hounds earlier.”

“Look, I said I was sorry, okay? I had my hands full with getting lumber—”

“Is that not that deranged woodsman's job?”

“Oh, be nice. Woodie's a real friendly guy when you look past the weird curse and the whole talking-to-his-axe thing. You could stand to be more like him.” Wilson busies himself with rolling up Maxwell’s pant legs.

“I think I'd rather— _now_ what are you doing?”

“It’s either this or taking your slacks off completely, your choice.” Wilson palpates each thin, sinewy leg, holding Maxwell’s foot flush with his chest as he bends his leg at the knee. Maxwell is pulled from his fantasy of stomping right on the man’s solar plexus by Wilson’s muttering. “No swelling, but some stiffness, could be age. . .any numbness? Tingling?”

“Irritation, but not in my legs,” Maxwell scoffs.

“Guess that’s a ‘no,’ then.” Wilson seems relatively unbothered by Maxwell’s flippant commentary; in truth, he’s been dying to conduct a hands-on examination of Maxwell’s body. For science, naturally. He'd been wanting to study the effects of the Nightmare Throne on the physical form, a desire further fueled by his brief stint as King. So far, though, barring the claws Maxwell kept gloved, and the blackening of his hands and forearms (presumably due to prolonged exposure to the Nightmare Fuel he was constantly handling, Wilson surmised), his body seemed much like any other older gentleman’s. Though Wilson makes a mental note to take a closer look at Maxwell’s arms later, preferably while he’s still indisposed. He thanks his lucky stars Maxwell can’t resist, otherwise he would have never been able to get even this far.

That sounded a lot better before he had time to weigh the implications of this thought. But _science._

“You’re actually in pretty good shape for an old guy,” Wilson murmurs, mostly to himself, and ignores the withering glare he can feel boring into him in response. “Could use some more meat on your bones, though.”

“Are you nearly through?” comes the much put-upon sigh.

“Yeah, yeah, just a second. Gotta make sure you don’t have any spinal damage. I know your back bothers you a lot as it is. Since you can’t seem to move, I want to make sure. . .”

Maxwell is a little surprised Wilson had noticed this, but the man could be astute when he wanted to be. Surprise quickly gives way to annoyance, however. “Funny, because I also have a nagging pain in my arse, as well.”

Wilson snorts, smirking, but doesn’t let this (admittedly witty) jab deter him. He slips off one of Maxwell's fine-grain leather shoes and makes quick work of his sock before cupping the heel of Maxwell’s foot in his hand.

“I don’t see how this—hrrk!” Maxwell’s complaint is bitten off with a small, strangled noise when Wilson draws a thumbnail up the other man’s sole. His toes curl reflexively, and Wilson sighs in relief. “Good, good! No nerve damage. I was worried, especially after. . .”

Wilson trails off when his eyes flick over to Maxwell. He’s suddenly drained of color—whatever coloring he had left, anyway—and the look on his face is one of trepidation.

“Hey, are you okay?” Wilson absently rubs his thumb beneath the high arch of Maxwell’s sole, as if to soothe the spot where he had used his fingernail, and the magician visibly jolts. “Are you in pain? Where does it hurt?”

“I-I'm not. I'm fine. N-Now unhand me.”

Wilson isn’t sure he’s ever heard Maxwell stammer before. Wordlessly, eyes trained on the former King, the scientist repeats the gentle encircling of the arch with the pad of his thumb.

Maxwell’s cheeks flush a ruddy, dusky red. He stiffens, and Wilson can just barely see the corners of his mouth twitch. The color fades to his usual ghastly pallor almost as quickly as it had come, but the flash of abject horror that had crossed his visage lingers. “S-Stop that.”

“Well, well, well.” The scientist gives him a wide, devilish grin that threatens to split his face in two. “Who would’ve thought The Great Maxwell was ticklish.”

“ _I'm_ _not_!” Maxwell insists, a little too quickly. “Err. . .I'm not. That’s. . .that’s preposterous.”

“Is that nervousness I detect? Uncertainty?” Wilson traces Maxwell’s instep with a finger, those mischievously gleaming eyes never leaving Maxwell’s. “Where’s your usual bravado?”

“S-Stop talking, you idiot,” Maxwell snaps, trying to mask his panic with venom. His lips curl as he snarls, but their telltale twitching belies how hard he’s trying to will himself not to split into a grin of his own. “Y-You complete—nngh!”

Wilson closes his eyes, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. “Maxwell, Maxwell, Maxwell. You of all people should know better than to insult the one who holds all the cards, as it were.” He strokes a finger across his toes, earning another small, strangled noise. “I suggest keeping your voice down, unless you want the entire camp to know about your little—” he lightly scratches down his sole, which jerks and twitches in his still-cupped hand, “—Achilles heel?”

Maxwell is as red as a toma root, now, both from humiliation and straining to keep from smiling. His blood pounds in his ears, and every teasing stroke, every soft coo makes his stomach tingle. And this was just his foot. He prays the rest of his body isn’t as sensitive, but it’s been so long since he’s been touched—several decades, at least—that he can’t be sure. He and Wilson would be finding out together, it seemed.

Speaking of Wilson, damn the man, he was enjoying this _far_ too much. Forget his own bravado, where did _Wilson’s_ sudden burst of confidence come from? Surely not just from having a delicious new means of blackmail to dangle over his head. Was this about getting even for dragging him into the Constant?

Maxwell mentally shakes his head, banishing the thought. It was Wilson’s lust for forbidden knowledge that trapped him here; Maxwell was only giving the scientist what he desired and _wait a second is he—_

“ _Don’t_ ,” Maxwell hisses, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice as Wilson removes his other shoe. “Don’t you _dare_.”

“Or what?” Wilson counters with a heavy-lidded purr, his grin downright predatory as he pulls off Maxwell’s other sock with a flourish. “What are you gonna do, _kill me_?”

Maxwell would be a liar if he said he wasn’t considering it, but the crushing weight of apprehension and anticipation sitting on his chest like a stone slab kept him from voicing this.

“How many times would that be, Max?” Wilson continues impishly, which makes Maxwell’s entrails run cold. “I _know_ you kept count. You loved to taunt me about it, after all.”

Maxwell’s entire body seizes when he feels five points of keratin drum ominously on each sole. “I'm _waiting_ ~”

“F-Five hundred a-and forty-three,” Maxwell rasps hoarsely.

“Good man,” Wilson coos. “Was that so hard?”

Maxwell gives a quiet groan. At least Higgsbury didn’t seem bitter about it, astonishingly enough. There was no malice in his voice, just pure, puckish glee. Was it his limited time on the throne that made him sympathetic? The pity he had felt that moved him to free Maxwell in the first place? Or was it just that the man didn’t seem have a mean bone in his body? He could be brusque and insensitive at times, but he wasn't a bad—

It’s when Wilson starts lazily, lightly raking his blunt fingernails up and down his soles, scratching here and there and never staying in one spot for long, that Maxwell completely rescinds his previous opinion. The man was pure evil. Wicked. Absolutely vile.

“Oh, Maxwell,” comes the sweet murmur that makes his stomach somersault, “is that a smile I see?”

The magician had been so preoccupied that he hadn’t even noticed how badly his cheeks and jaw ached. He must have a completely unhinged rictus stretched across his face for how much it burns. He realizes now he can barely see the scientist for the tears that prick his eyes.

“Oh, you look like you’re in absolute _agony_ ,” Wilson observes with an infuriatingly boyish giggle. “But we’re only just getting started.”

Maxwell is disgusted and appalled at the pathetic whine that escapes through his gritted teeth. But what he hated the most was how much Wilson’s eyes sparkled at the sound.

Wilson is beside himself with delight. Studying his worst enemy's fascinating physique— _for science_ —and getting to manipulate a major weakness not a single living soul seemed to know about? Oh, it was almost too much for the intrepid scientist.

His examination, if one could call it that, was also illuminating for another reason. He'd often wondered what Maxwell looked like under that perfectly-tailored pinstripe suit and layered fur-lined coat. Was he hiding some sort of monstrous deformity, left over from when an incensed Maxwell had transformed into an increasingly horrific beast to match his ire as Wilson bested him at his own game? Were other parts of his body clawed or blackened? And just how scrawny was he? Science demanded answers, and Wilson was not one to refuse the siren song of science.

Maxwell boasted a superior bone structure that men and women alike would kill for, at least in Wilson’s (scientific!) opinion. His feet were shapely without being too knobby and bony, his arms and legs were as lithe and graceful as a dancer’s, and despite his visible ribcage and hollow stomach, his chest and shoulders were broad and proud. Not to mention the man had one hell of a jawline and high cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. He even liked that large, protruding nose (that Wilson only teased him about because it was such a sore spot for the magician). Maxwell looked entirely different from the rest of the poor souls he was now trapped with and it was _fascinating,_ absolutely fascinating.

But Maxwell only feels further vexed under that intense gaze, like Wilson is dissecting him with his eyes. (Knowing that screwy scientist, he probably was.) His first impulse is to react with anger, to snap at Wilson to stop gawking like a slack-jawed yokel and just get on with whatever he plans on doing, but he doesn’t trust himself enough to speak. At least his aching face finally gets a break.

Until Wilson’s clever fingers crept up his legs like spiders, feather-light and unbearably ticklish. They stroke the tender hallows behind his knees, and _oh Lord not the thighs_

Sheer panic sets in and Maxwell braces himself, clamping his eyes shut and biting his lip so hard he tastes iron. Damn Higgsbury, damn him, damn that cheeky little scoundrel to hell, he _has_ to know what he’s doing, he _has_ to—

Wilson is like a man possessed. He doesn’t even seem to realize what he’s doing, nor the significance of touching somewhere so. . .intimate. His eyes are hazy and dreamy, as if drunk on Maxwell’s obvious discomfort, and any shred of decency and inhibition has long since fallen by the wayside. “Oooh,” he says finally, his voice awed, “your thighs are _soft_.” That note of mischief returns when he adds, “I bet they’re _really_ ticklish, aren’t they?”

Maxwell’s strained smile is gone, a twisted grimace in its place. All this touch after all these years, especially there, along the thin skin of his inner thighs, was too much. Thoroughly overwhelmed, he fruitlessly tries to instruct his blood to rush anywhere else. Please, please, anywhere but _there_.

Then the touching stops. Wilson must be disappointed with the lack of manic grinning, and Maxwell releases a breath he didn’t know he'd been holding. “Not that ticklish there, hmm? Don’t worry.” Maxwell flinches the second a hand comes to rest on his stomach. “We have lots of other places to explore.”

Maxwell did _not_ like the sound of that.

But rather than continue with his stomach, Wilson moves to his arms. It seemed he had every intention of drawing out this torture for as long as possible. _Lucky me._

His arms are carefully freed from his sleeves—at least he wasn’t ruining his only good suit—and his gloves are removed. Wilson inspects the blackened talons, brushing his fingers over the knuckles, turning them over in his hands, flexing each clawed digit. He gives a contented hum, sounding. . .sounding almost _impressed_. Maxwell is sure even his ears must be red at this point.

But when Wilson raises those talons to his lips and _nibbles_ , Maxwell almost combusts. _Wait waitWAITWAITWAIT WHAT IS **HAPPENING**_

“Higg—Wil—wh—wh—!?” he sputters uselessly, his voice barely above a whisper, and Wilson looks pleased as punch. “Ah, so you _do_ have sensation in your fingers! Interesting, _very_ interesting.” He pauses, patting his waistcoat pockets, pulling out a roughly-bound papyrus notebook and a simple feather pencil and was he _actually_ _writing this **down**_

Maxwell’s head is spinning. This is too much, this is too _weird_ , this is not like Higgsbury at all—

Something clicks. Sanity. Hounds. The pile of evil flower petals sitting in the spider silk pouch Maxwell had woven for them for safekeeping, rather than stuffing loose petals in his pockets. The pouch he had left spilled on the floor of his tent, as he had been about to replenish his stock of Nightmare fuel before exhaustion had overtaken him.

The pouch that has been sitting by Wilson this entire time.

Wilson had come to his aid during the hound attack, dove into the fray and fought until his already-battered spear had broken, then frantically punched at the beasts until Maxwell could summon enough clones to fight them off. He hadn’t just been around the hounds too long, he had physically _touched_ them. Then with all the Nightmare fuel Maxwell had expended while they were in close contact. . .

And now the petals.

The man was insane. _Actually_ insane. His sanity had been slipping so gradually that neither of them had even noticed.

Maxwell tries to tell him this, but his throat is too dry. He can only manage a weak croak. It gets Wilson’s attention, at the least.

“Hmm? Oh, don’t worry, Max.” Wilson gives him a sunny smile that is less than reassuring. “I haven’t forgotten about you. _I could never forget about you_.”

Oh, that made Maxwell’s skin crawl.

“What are you staring at, Max?” What was with all this “Max" business? “Is there something on my face?”

He goes to brush off whatever he thinks is on himself, and realizes he’s still holding the feather pencil in his hand. He looks at the pencil, then at Maxwell, then at the pencil again. And he smiles. An unsettlingly ferocious smile.

He returns the notepad to his pocket and takes Maxwell’s wrist, threading the feather between those hooked claws. Yes, Maxwell _absolutely_ had sensation in his fingers.

“You know, the palms are supposed to be more sensitive to touch than the soles. Not a lot of people realize that.” Despite his deteriorating mental state, at least Higgsbury still had the wherewithal to keep his voice down. “What do you think, Max?”

“S-Stop c-calling me—hnk!” Maxwell’s breath catches as the feather passes over his palm. Wilson eventually abandons the feather in favor of tracing the lines in his hand with his fingers and oh God why was that _worse_

“Aww, your smile is back! I guess it’s a tie.”

“ _Shut. Up,_ ” Maxwell hisses through clenched teeth, his warning about the petals forgotten.

Another click of the tongue. “Oh, don’t be like that, you old stick-in-the-mud. A little laughter would do you good! It’s the best medicine, they say. Unless your ribs are broken. Laughter would make that worse.” Wilson seems to be genuinely considering this. “I guess it’s a good thing I checked for that.”

Despite knowing exactly where this line of thought is going, the fingers suddenly cycling up and down his ribcage still catch him off-guard. Enough that a few shrill, strained giggles manage to escape his lips despite his valiant efforts.

“Oh, Maxwell, that was _beautiful_.” Wilson's face is flushed, for some ungodly reason. “I need to hear _more_.”

His fingers stroke up his bony chest, now heaving with suppressed giggles, as if Wilson were plucking the strings of a harp. Maxwell’s entire upper torso is on fire, lungs and diaphragm boiling and bubbling with laughter he won’t be able to keep inside for much longer at this rate.

It’s when Wilson starts walking his fingers up his squirming sides to tickle under his arms that Maxwell finally breaks. A flood of deep giggles pours out of him, quiet and rumbling, rich and thick like warm molasses. It only gets worse when Wilson zeroes in on his shivering stomach, lightly tickling him with both hands, all hope of stemming the stream of nervous giggling lost.

“Oh, _yes_ , you're _loving_ this,” Wilson purrs. “I've never seen you so happy! You must really be enjoying yourself. Oh. . .” Wilson’s voice drops a full octave lower, throaty and awestruck. Reverent, even. “ _Oh_. You really _are_ enjoying yourself.”

Hell's bells, he had been hoping, _praying_ that the man wouldn’t notice. A foolish, irrational delusion.

Maxwell was rock-hard. He could manipulate reality itself, but he couldn’t reroute his own blood flow after all. Some magician, he thinks bitterly, if he can’t even make an unwanted erection disappear.

He opens his mouth, wanting to blame it on all the touching, blame it on the tension, blame it on those _damn_ petals, but then Wilson is kissing him

_why is Wilson kissing him_

**_why is Wilson kissing him_ **

**_WHY IS HE KISSING WILSON BACK_ **

Maxwell chokes when the tip of a tongue flicks against the roof of his mouth. Blast it, how was the inside of his _mouth_ ticklish?

Wilson is satisfied by the reaction and finally pulls back. He’s looking quite smug, eyes clouded over and hooded with heavy lids. Maxwell watches as his tongue passes briefly over his own lips, and the magician very nearly comes on the spot.

“You taste like smoke and mirrors,” the scientist says finally.

Was that supposed to be an asinine dig at his former profession? A joke about Maxwell’s deception? Or was Higgsbury being literal? Smoke made sense, as he'd yet to kick his cigar habit, _but how did he know what a mirror tasted like?_ Maxwell laughs a short, mirthless bark of disbelief.

Then a hand clamps over his mouth, and Wilson raises a finger to his lips. The camp. Right. And worse yet, there are now footsteps pausing outside his tent.

“Hey, old man.” Great, the pyromaniac. “Have you seen Wilson around?”

“I'm in here, Willow,” Wilson answers, sounding far more chipper than he should. “Just stitching up his royal highness.”

Maxwell’s temper flares, and he has half a mind to bite down on the source of his suffering until he feels Wilson using his free hand to knead his flagging erection through his trousers. He gives a small, muffled moan.

“Holy crap! Is he hurt bad?”

“No, no, nothing the Gentleman Scientist can’t handle.”

 _Some gentleman, some scientist._ Maxwell rolls his eyes, and Wilson gives him a hard squeeze in retaliation. “But I need to concentrate. Give me a bit.”

The way the lies roll off his tongue so easily, so convincingly, is almost impressive. Or Maxwell _would_ be impressed, if he wasn’t so distracted.

“Alrighty,” Willow chirps, mollified by the explanation and Wilson’s seemingly high spirits. “Give him a good jab for me!”

“You bet.”

Then she is gone.

“You bet, Willow,” Wilson repeats, his voice returning to a husky half-whisper. Maxwell’s eyes roll back again, but for an entirely different reason as Wilson coaxes him back to full hardness. “I'll take goooooood care of King Maxwell.”

Wilson hums a jovial little tune to himself as he tugs down Maxwell’s slacks and undergarments, freeing him from the confines of the stiff fabric. Maxwell flushes down to his chest as Wilson gives a low, appreciative whistle. “Looks like your stupid nose isn’t the only thing that’s giant.”

“Will. You. _Please_.” Maxwell starts, trembling with a dizzying combination of arousal, mortification, and rage. “ _Stop. Talking_.”

Wilson laughs, unceremoniously stuffing a clean handkerchief into Maxwell’s mouth. “Oh-ho-ho, no. No nononono, _pal. You're_ the one who needs to stop talking.”

Wilson takes Maxwell in hand, giving his length a firm stroke that reduces the furious Maxwell into a quivering pile of jelly. Dark, thin fluid leaks from his penis and rolls down his shaft, and Wilson gasps.

“Is that _Nightmare fuel?_ You lubricate _Nightmare fuel!?_ ”

Wilson pats his pockets again, but freezes under the force of the most vicious glower he had ever seen from Maxwell. A look that says in no uncertain terms “take your hand off that notepad before I break it off.”

“Such a sourpuss,” Wilson tuts. “No fun at all.”

Any muffled retort Maxwell could manage is swallowed up by a moan as the hand returns to masturbate him, slow and soft. His touch was neither cruel nor kind, firm enough to dull that needy ache in his groin, but just light enough to keep him from completion.

“Ah! I just realized!” Wilson takes his hand away, and is met with a frustrated groan. Maxwell tries to fix him with another sharp glare, but his eyes widen in terror as he watches Wilson idly twirl the dark plume of the feather pencil between his fingers. “I bet this—” he draws the feather in a circle around the entirety of Maxwell’s genitals for emphasis, “—is the most ticklish spot on your body, wouldn’t you say?”

Maxwell’s fingers dig into the fur beneath him, shaking his head vehemently from side to side. _I'll have to speed this up,_ Wilson muses, _if he’s starting to regain movement. Adrenaline, perhaps?_

“No? Oh, I'm not so sure about that. In fact, I think I'm one hundred percent correct. Let’s test that hypothesis, shall we?”

Maxwell looks as if he'll swallow his own tongue when the tip of the feather touches his testicles. Wilson traces each wrinkle of his scrotum, paying rapt attention to how the glands shiver and retract from the kiss of the ebony quill. Damn it all, it _did_ tickle, but he can also feel his libido spike several notches.

Maxwell is split between laughter and moaning. His body is so overstimulated, so wracked with sensation, that he can no longer produce any sound. He convulses in silent agony, shaking so hard his teeth chatter through the handkerchief in his mouth. Forget Wilson’s sanity (or lack thereof), Maxwell's own is barely hanging in the balance. He’s seconds from snapping when Wilson gingerly pulls back his foreskin to draw the feather over his frenulum. Snapping and something else, given how quickly he can feel his seed rising.

He jumps when Wilson’s lips graze his ear, nibbling the thin cartilage at the top. “You’re about to blow,” he whispers. “I can feel it. How about this, _my liege_?”

Maxwell doesn’t have time to determine whether Wilson is mocking him or not (a safe bet that he is, but he sounds gravely serious) when the scientist pinches the tip of his glans together and pulls the feather across his slit.

Maxwell’s hips buck, back arched as he nearly bends backwards in half, and hits his climax so hard he sees stars. Stars and a hot, blinding world of white. Thick ropes of viscous black ejaculate splash heavily on his chest and stomach, and once his spasms begin to subside and the all-consuming whiteness starts to fade back into the inside of the tent that surrounds them, Wilson dutifully removes the handkerchief from Maxwell’s mouth and wipes him off.

“You bit through it,” Wilson chides, though he sounds elated. “And you ruined my pencil. Do you know how long it took me to trap that crow?”

Maxwell starts to argue, but Wilson has ladled some rainwater from the stone basin Maxwell keeps in his tent, and presses a roughly-hewn cup to his lips. “Drink this.”

Maxwell startlingly obeys, and Wilson fills his cup back up (though not before tipping a little water in his handkerchief to dampen it. It would be ungentlemanly to leave the poor magician sticky).

“Higgsbury.” Maxwell finds his voice once he’s regained enough of his composure, interrupting more of Wilson’s wastefully cheerful humming. “You’re insane.”

“Hmm?” Wilson pulls up Maxwell’s slacks, buttoning them before he grips Maxwell’s hand and pulls him to a sitting position. “Oh, I know that. You'd have to be, to be as great a scientist as—”

“No. _Listen to me_.” Maxwell grabs the man’s shoulders and gives him a small shake. “You are _actually_ insane, Higgsbury.”

Wilson rolls his eyes and heaves an exasperated sigh, like _Maxwell_ was the unreasonable one in this exchange. “And I said I already _know_ that, _Carter_.”

It was an unspoken rule among all the survivors in the camp to never, _ever_ use Maxwell’s old name. As much as they all liked to goad him, no one had dared cross that line. Wilson was lucky he hadn’t called him by his former first name, else Maxwell would have strangled him to death with no measurable hesitation.

But Maxwell was still livid enough to haul off and slap that idiot scientist across the face as hard as he could, the sharp crack reverberating through the stuffy tent.

Wilson stares blankly, uncomprehending. He silently touches his stinging cheek, then the corner of his mouth, then inspects the blood on his fingertips. His expression changes from shock to bewilderment. And when the fog finally lifts from his eyes, hysteria.

Just like after he had tested Maxwell’s plantar reflex, realization dawns.

“Ah.

Hah.

AAAAAAAAHH!”

“Quit screeching, imbecile!” But Wilson has jumped to his feet, roughly tugging the rest of Maxwell’s clothes on. “Stop, stop, you bumbling fool, you’re going to tear my suit!”

“I'm sorry, Maxwell! I'm sorry I'm sorryI'msorryI'msorryI’mmmff—”

Maxwell seizes Wilson’s face in his hand and yanks him to his knees, squeezing his cheeks together until his lips purse like a fish's. Apparently he'd managed to knock some sense into him, as Wilson’s dark eyes had returned to their normal clarity. He now looks almost like a frightened rabbit, which Maxwell would have found endearing if he wasn’t so virulently angry.

Maxwell wordlessly points, and Wilson’s eyes follow his finger to the noxious petals scattered on the ground.

“Oh.”

The silence that follows hangs in the air between them, heavy and oppressive. Wilson is the first to break the thick quiet with speech.

“I. . .I should go.” He stands. “I need to. . .I'll tell everyone not to disturb you. I'll, uh, see you later.”

And then Wilson is gone, leaving Maxwell alone in a whirlwind of his own bemused thoughts.


	2. The King's Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would anyone like some stew
> 
> Would anyone like some stew
> 
> Would anyone like some stew
> 
> (Y'all get old Vine quotes because I'm shit at summaries)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus fucking Christ this was an ORDEAL
> 
> This was only supposed to be like two chapters of some silly smut and it is fucking RUNNING AWAY FROM ME and becoming this BIG THING
> 
> Warly is rapidly growing on me because he's one of the more sympathetic characters (well, they ALL are, but his motives for making a deal with Maxwell aren't inherently selfish like, say, Wilson or Wigfrid) and based on his game dialogue with the others, he's just a chill fucking bro. I think Wilson would be more comfortable around him because he's a) a nice dude, and b) cooking is basically science for starving people. I'm making A LOT of assumptions here but it FEELS RIGHT OKAY
> 
> Is Maxwell losing his temper and beating the ever-loving fuck out of people considered Canon-Typical Violence? Because given how you can murderize each other in DST I'm gonna say yes. I hope this doesn't turn people off too much. Wilson and Maxwell also canonically beat the shit out of each other upon meeting for the first time as survivors, so them coming to blows over dumb shit probably doesn't register to either of them as abnormal behavior. Just guys being dudes.
> 
> I also imagine Maxwell (and Wilson, to a lesser extent) having intrusive depraved and/or potentially disturbing fantasies due to the influence of the throne and Them. Prolonged isolation can make even the mentally healthiest of people a little kooky, and Wil and Max's pre-Constant psyches were already dubious at best.
> 
> The chapters are also now all named for chess moves because fuck me I guess

At some point, Maxwell must have dozed off. Unusual for him, as he so rarely slept. But that incident with Higgsbury had sapped him of any will to stay awake (and he was running on fumes as it is). A defense mechanism, perhaps, as only the sweet void of unconsciousness could calm the whirring thoughts he didn’t want to address right now.

But that didn’t keep him from dreaming, much to his chagrin. That. . . _clandestine engagement_ with that insufferable would-be “scientist" had dislodged. . .something in his head, kicking his subconscious into overdrive. His fevered mind swam with hazy fantasies of light tickles and gentle touches, soft kisses and teasing words. But then there were visions of a far more explicit nature, sharp and black and vivid and involving use of Shadow magic in ways he'd never fathomed. He had awoken with a tight coiling in his stomach and even tighter trousers.

He looks down at his groin and scowls, as if his penis had insulted his entire family line. He could really use a cigar right now, but his reserves of Nightmare fuel had been completely tapped out from the morning’s hound attack. Although. . .maybe his mutinous member could make itself useful after all.

. . .Wait, no, that was ridiculous, not to mention disgusting. Just because _Higgsbury_ said it was Nightmare fuel didn’t mean it actually _was_. Maxwell hadn’t pleasured himself in years, even before his decades-long tenure as Nightmare King, so the dark pre-ejaculate came as much a surprise to him as it did to Higgsbury. He had thought himself too old for that nonsense, that his body had been too ravaged by the throne and time and _Ţ̴̧̢̨̯͕͚͔̩̥̖͍̥͔̹͋ḩ̴̨̢̦̰͈͔̼͓̳̮̤̓͛̃̓̑͌̃ẻ̶̛̯̮͍̱̰͈͈̮͉̱̮̺͓̇͋̍̑̕͜͠͠͝m̵̢̛̤̻̤̣͓̪̮̳̝̟̥̈́̋͒̊̓͜_ to sustain anything beyond normal metabolic functions, and that his libido had long since shriveled up and died along with William Carter.

But there it was again against all odds, the cursed hard lump between his legs, begging for attention like that stupid furry panting monster chest.

There was a joke somewhere about dogs and bones but Maxwell was in too foul a mood to make it.

Why _him_? Why that insolent knave Higgsbury? It wasn’t the scientist’s sex that was the issue, oh no. After an eternity on the throne, tampering with dark forces beyond his understanding, his. . .predilections seemed so insignificant. No, his issue was with the scientist himself. He was childish, ill-tempered, whiny, unstable, svelte, arrogant, self-absorbed, brutish, charming, clumsy, studious, resourceful, passionate, just _poured_ into that waistcoat, this wasn’t working, this wasn’t working, **this wasn’t working**

Maxwell rubs his temples, wondering if pressing hard enough will make his skull collapse in on itself. Or maybe he could persuade Higgsbury to perform a lobotomy on him. He would need little convincing; all Maxwell had to say was that it was for _science_ and that lunatic would be all over it like white on rice.

Thinking about that could very well solve his current pants predicament, he realizes. He tries to imagine the searing, immeasurable, excruciating agony of having flesh and bone sliced and sawed through with crude flint instruments, Higgsbury’s prominent brow furrowed in deep concentration, tongue poking out between his thin lips, a mad gleam in those deep-set eyes, massaging soft circles into his brain with those amazingly capable fingers, cooing words of praise about being _such a good test subject,_ such an _amazingly generous man_ to lend his body to science, how even his organs were _so_ dapper _, I can feel you thinking about me, Maxwell, I want to taste your thoughts, I want to lick the pleasure centers of your brain until you come without touching yourself—_

And now Maxwell was both profoundly disturbed and harder than ever. He groans and buries his face in his hands, defeated.

Unless.

Unless he could fragment his mind like he does with his Shadow clones. All he has to do is isolate these. . . _impure thoughts_ about Higgsbury and wall them off somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind. He had done it with an entire personality, he could do it again with—

“Wilsön! Wisdöm guide you, my friend! What have yöu there? Is that. . . _meat_?”

“Meat!?” another thickly-accented voice chimes in. “Meat for Wolfgang’s mighty belly?”

“Meat for _everyone_ ,” comes Wilson’s timid chuckle. He really didn’t do crowds, or socialization in general. “I was out gathering resources, and I thought—”

“Holy crap, Wilson!” Willow exclaims. “That’s gotta be three Koalefants’ worth of meat! Did you hunt them all by yourself?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. I was a little riled up after, uh. . .”

Maxwell stops breathing for a split-second.

“. . .after the hound attack this morning, so I had some nervous energy to burn off. I, uh, figured we could make a stew, that way we could mix in a little of the Monster Meat from this morning to make it more palatable and negate its adverse effects while stretching out our food supply. . .”

“Is great idea, tiny egg-head man! More meat for Wolfgang!”

“Möre meat för mighty warriörs!”

Somehow Maxwell wasn’t sure either of them, especially Wolfgang, really understood the logistics of Higgsbury’s (admittedly clever) plan, but he doesn’t have time to ponder this further before another voice joins in. “What’s all this about meat, now? Oh, Wilson, _salut_! Wait a minute, that’s—that's at least three Koalefants’ worth of—”

“I KNOW!” Wilson clearly isn’t used to all this attention, and Maxwell can’t help but feel a small surge of schadenfreude at his palpable discomfort. _That makes two of us, eh, Higgsbury?_

“Look, just take the meat, Warly, please? And about the Monster Meat from this morning—”

“Did I hear you say you wanted to mix it into a stew to stretch our stores and nullify its poisonous properties? _Génial, mon ami!_ ” There’s a sound of a slap on clothed flesh, presumably the chef giving Higgsbury a hearty clap on the back. Maxwell can only imagine how deeply uncomfortable Wilson must look and wishes he could see for himself. “This is why you’re the brains of the operation.”

“If he’s the brains, we're all doomed.”

“Oh, shut UP, Willow!” comes Higgsbury’s irritated retort. Maxwell chuckles. At last, he and the firestarter could agree on something.

“Jeez! Why are you so grumpy today?”

“Give the poor man a break, he's had a long day. But why did you bring back so much meat, Wilson? It’s not like you to do all the hunting—”

“—when you have things to blow up instead.”

“Oh, I _know_ the woman who's razed the camp to the ground on more than one occasion isn’t lecturing me about—”

“Enöugh, yöu twö! Föcus! Friend Wilsön, why did yöu nöt summön me för the hunt? Yöu knöw I—"

Maxwell's initial amusement curdles into annoyance. God, they were _loud_. All this inane chatter and petulant bickering was giving him a headache. He starts to tune them out, but—

“—wanted to make a stew for Maxwell—”

Maxwell’s heart nearly stops. And the rest of the camp's imbecilic gibbering comes to an abrupt, screeching halt. The atmosphere is suddenly so deathly still that he can hear the metallic clatter of the pyromaniac’s lighter hitting the ground.

“. . .because he's. . .injured. . .”

Absolute silence.

“. . .um.”

Willow, that mouthy little trollop, is the first to speak. “Let me get this straight. You went through all that trouble. To do something nice. For _Maxwell_.”

Maxwell surreptitiously peers through his tent flap to watch the exchange. All eyes are on Wilson, who is hanging his head and kicking shamefully at the dirt. “Not just for Maxwell. For everybody,” he mumbles to the ground.

“Well, like it or not, Maxwell is part of ‘everybody’ now,” Warly adds, giving Wilson’s shoulder a reassuring pat.

Maxwell always liked the chef—though he'd never admit it—because like Wickerbottom and his niece, he was one of the few survivors with any goddamn sense.

“But tiny frail man is killer! Wolfgang never forgive!”

“He’s a trickster and a demön!”

“And a condescending jerkface.”

“Alright, alright, _mes amis,_ calm down. Forget about Maxwell. I'll whip up a stew that’ll knock your socks off and call you all when it’s ready.”

The rest of the rabble all nod in affirmation and eventually depart, chatting amongst themselves in low voices. Even Willow, arguably the closest to Wilson despite their near-constant arguing, looks at him strangely before walking away. Wilson rubs his burning face.

“Hey now, it'll be alright. They’ll come around eventually.”

“Yeah,” Wilson answers weakly, not sounding the least bit convinced.

“. . .you were one of the first to be trapped here, right? After Maxwell tricked you into building the door?”

Wilson nods solemnly, gaze still cast downward.

“But even you found it in your heart to forgive him.”

The scientist chuckles ruefully. “‘Forgive' is. . .a strong word. Pity, maybe.”

 _Pity_ **_me_** _?_ _You've got some nerve, pal._

“All the same, you got over your, ah, _idée fixe_ first, after all that. And if someone as stubborn as you can do it, anyone can.” Pause. “Err, I assure you I meant that in the nicest possible way.”

This time Wilson laughs, _actually_ laughs. It’s a clear, bright, merry sound that stirs something in Maxwell’s cold, black heart. “Thanks, Warly.”

The chef grins. “ _C’est pas grave._ Just science me up some proper cooking tools and we'll call it even.”

Maxwell stares listlessly at the ceiling of his tent. Evening was fast approaching, and after an entire day of arguing with himself, he had given up trying not to think about that stupid scientist and his stupid face and his stupid laugh that he wanted to soak in like a hot bath. Instead, he'd spent the last several hours perfecting the lost art of channeling and manipulating the flow of the humours, which was definitely not just code for glaring into space until the blood in his dick decided to sod off.

It was starting to hurt, damn it.

He supposes he could just take care of it the usual way. He turns on his lantern, dimming the harsh light until it glows just enough to stave off the impending darkness, and removes a square of woven silk from his breast pocket. Then he unbuttons his trousers, exposing himself to the open air.

How long had it been since he'd last done this? Twenty years? Thirty? He sardonically wonders how he managed not to ejaculate cobwebs when. . .

No. Not thinking about that. Just taking care of himself in as businesslike and pragmatic a manner as possible. No thoughts, just muscle memory. He cups the silk pocket square in his hand and palms the top of his erection, keeping his mind blank. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose.

_Looks like your stupid nose isn’t the only thing that’s giant._

God, only Higgsbury would come out with such a backhanded compliment in the heat of the moment.

Not that there _was_ a moment. No moment. None. Maxwell steels himself with another deep breath.

_I bet this is the most ticklish spot on your body, wouldn’t you say?_

He squeezes himself much too tightly, almost to the point of pain. What was with Higgsbury's fixation on this strange paraphilia? And to that end, why was _he_ still thinking about it?

_No? Oh, I'm not so sure about that. In fact, I think I'm one hundred percent correct._

. . .And why did thinking about it stoke such a fire in his belly. . .?

Unbidden, a fantasy of Higgsbury plays behind his eyelids. The shoulders of his Shadow-cloaked suit flicker like dark flame, his shock of unruly hair as unfathomably black as his eyes, as he looks up from his position in Maxwell’s lap. He gives him a feral grin, revealing _far_ too many pointed teeth, _far_ too close to his anatomy than was acceptable.

Then he raises his hand and wiggles his clawed fingers at him.

_Let’s test that hypothesis, shall we?_

“Don’t you dare,” Maxwell whispers, breathlessly, to no one.

_There must be something wrong with my ears, because I **know** I didn’t just hear the decrepit despot I deposed giving **me** orders. _

The fantasy Higgsbury delicately draws those exquisite claws from root to tip, again and again, until thin, murky fluid beads at the top. Then a single talon slicks it over the flared cap of his glans in slow, torturous circles.

Maxwell’s uneasy chuckle comes out as more of a hissing exhale.

_Ticklish?_

“Sensitive,” he corrects.

_Then why are you smiling?_

“Anticipation.”

_Are you just going to respond to my every inquiry in one word?_

“Probably.”

_Wrong answer._

The Shadow Higgsbury sinks his claws into the base of his cock, gripping him tightly and keeping him painfully erect. Then the apparition spits in his hand and grinds his palm against the vulnerable glans, now swollen and hypersensitive with trapped blood.

“H-Hahh-hahh-hahh! S-Stop! _Stop_!” Maxwell crumbles, curling in on himself like a shrimp. His protests are expelled from him in rapid, winded staccato bursts. “Hahh-ahh-hah-hahh, p-please! Please, ahh-haha, stop—!"

He finds himself on his knees, struggling through his violent convulsions to prop himself up on one arm as he spends himself into the silk kerchief clenched in his other hand.

As he heaves ragged breaths alone in his tent, his eyes watering and his brow dripping sweat, he thinks how his heart probably can’t take many more of these brutal full-body orgasms.

Once he’s recovered enough to sit back up, he wipes his forehead on his sleeve, and stuffs himself back into his pants with little fanfare. He looks in disgust at the ruined pocket square he'd left wadded in the dirt, completely sodden with a substance thick and cloudy like mucus, but dark and seemingly writhing as if alive.

It was _really_ gross.

Maxwell has half a mind to burn the evidence right there in his tent, drop it right into the lantern and call it a day. But maybe if what Higgsbury said was true. . .

He crushes the soiled cloth in his gloved fist and cringes at the hideous squelching sound it makes. Great. Now he'd have to burn these gloves, too.

But when he opens his hand, a shivering dollop of inky gel rests perfectly in his palm.

“I'll be damned,” he murmurs quietly. “Maybe the man really _is_ some sort of genius.”

He absently joggles the substance in his hand, wondering what he should do with it.

Well, waste not, want not.

The fuel billows like smoke, shaping into one tightly-rolled cigar. He carefully bites off the end and spits out the cap, which dissipates into the air. Holding the Shadow cigar between his lips, he rotates it in his fingers, just barely touching the foot of it to the lantern's flame until it catches.

Fragrant smoke fills his mouth, woody and slightly floral like the dark petals he uses for fuel. _Much_ better.

He removes his suit jacket and lies back, folding his arms behind his head. A quiet calm settles over him and he closes his eyes, feeling more relaxed than he has in ages.

Freedom from the throne, a good cigar, peace and quiet—what more could a man want? A stiff drink, maybe. Higgsbury should make himself useful and draw up blueprints for a distillery.

. . .And just like that his mood is soured. He snorts smoke from his nostrils in irritation. That halfwit had somehow managed to burrow into his brain like a parasite, and he’s furious with himself for letting that _insignificant ant_ dominate his thoughts. All over a momentary weakness of the flesh. Pathetic.

“Maxwell?”

_Oh, bugger me._

“May I come in?” A small, timorous laugh. “I come bearing sustenance, heh.”

“No one’s stopping you,” Maxwell answers curtly in a stream of white smoke.

Higgsbury hesitantly enters, a large earthenware bowl in his hands. “It’s Meaty Stew.”

“I have eyes.” But Maxwell isn’t looking at him, nor has he moved from his position on the fur bedroll. One arm is folded behind his head, and he has the Codex Umbra flipped open in his other hand.

An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air in the very same way that bricks don’t.

Wilson swallows his anxiety and tries again. “It’s good. Warly made it. It'll—”

“‘Put some meat on my bones?’” Maxwell absently turns a page. “If I had a speck of gold dust for every time you've uttered that idiotic joke, I could smelt a solid brick with which to bludgeon you to death.”

Wilson’s brows furrow, indignation beginning to outweigh his fear. “I was going to say ‘help you get your strength back,’ but you seem to have made a full recovery.”

“And without your invaluable assistance. It's a miracle.”

Wilson frowns and kneels beside the bedroll, setting the bowl down. “Take off your pants.”

Maxwell actually looks up, raising an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Your injury. Let me see it.”

“Wanting to check the imaginary handiwork of your imaginary stitches?”

Wilson tries to hide his embarrassment with a scowl, but it does nothing to keep the heat from his face.

_No nerve damage. I was worried, especially after. . ._

“That bite you got on your outer thigh. Let me see it.”

“I put a Honey Poultice on it this morning. It’s fine.”

“Do you know what kind of bacteria those monsters probably have in their mouths!? A wound like that is no joke.”

“No, the real joke here is that you call yourself a scientist.”

Maxwell starts when Wilson angrily seizes the waistband of his trousers and yanks. “Bloody hell! Get your grubby hands off me, you cretin, before I—”

Acting on pure instinct, Wilson grabs Maxwell by the lips and clamps them shut between his fingers. He would have laughed himself to tears if he could see the other man's expression, but he was too busy peeling back the poultice to revel in it. Maxwell looks completely and utterly gobsmacked, cowed into stupefied silence for what was probably the first time in his life.

“Looks good. That’s a relief. I guess you were. . .right. . .”

When Wilson looks up, he realizes he’s made a grave and potentially fatal error.

“. . .about the. . .wound.”

He pats the poultice back in place and pulls the hem of Maxwell’s trousers back up with the most ingratiating smile he can muster. Then he plucks the cigar from the ground and places it back between Maxwell’s lips. And fixes the magician's hair.

“There we go. All better. Now about that st—HRRK!”

The scientist is slammed onto his back with surprising force. It rips the breath from his lungs and he swears several vertebrae are now fractured. He gives a pathetic wheeze, trying desperately to draw the air back in, when a great ebony claw closes around his throat. Maxwell is hunched over him, snarling like a rabid beast, their faces a hair's breadth apart. So close that Wilson can taste smoke. Smoke and mirrors and lots of blood, but that last one was probably coming from _his_ mouth, not Maxwell's.

“ _Give me one **fucking** good reason why I shouldn’t crush your windpipe right now._”

Just the use of “fucking" was enough to convince Wilson he was staring into the face of death five-hundred and forty-four. “I need it for breathing,” he chokes out in a barely-audible croak.

The claw tightens and Wilson is bashed repeatedly into the unforgiving ground. “ _Not_.” Slam. “ _Good_.” Slam. “ _Enough_.” Slam.

Wilson coughs, horrifically dizzy and frantically trying to pry the talon from his throat. “Max—well—please—can't—”

“One reason,” he spits, froth dripping from his monstrous maw. His cigar somehow stays in the corner of his mouth, likely impaled between serrated teeth. “And you'll make it a good one this time if you want your breathing privileges back.”

Somewhere in Wilson’s oxygen-starved and potentially-bleeding mind, he wonders if this also applies to not-sustaining-further-traumatic-brain-injury privileges and unbroken-spinal-column privileges.

“Ach—ill—es.”

A brief look of puzzlement cuts through the fury twisting Maxwell's features, and he wonders if he'd actually succeeded in giving Higgsbury brain damage.

“. . .What?”

“Heel.”

Maxwell squints at him. Then his eyes widen in realization.

_I suggest keeping your voice down, unless you want the entire camp to know about your little. . .Achilles heel?_

“No.” His grip slackens, just slightly, and Wilson greedily sucks the surrounding air into his burning lungs. Except all he gets is a lungful of supernatural cigar, which sends him into a hoarse coughing fit. “No, you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t _dare_.”

Wilson’s coughing and airflow is abruptly cut off _again_ , but now by _two_ claws around his neck. It seems Maxwell has recovered already. “But how would you even do that, pal? Call a town hall meeting? I'd put you down like the mongrel you are, first.”

Wilson holds up two fingers, then one.

Maxwell’s eyes narrow. “Playing charades? _That's_ your master plan?”

“All—I—need,” he rasps, “two—words. One—per—son. Whole—camp—knows.”

“Two words, and one person. _”_ Maxwell gives a sharp, humorless, laugh. “Ha! Oh, that’s rich. Tell me, _pal,_ how is your second supposed to know what the hell you’re on about?”

“Know—the—best. Ru—mor—spreads—”

The person who knew Higgsbury the best. Maxwell’s cruel sneer drops right off his face.

“Like—wild—fire.”

_Willow. Maxwell’s ticklish._

Wilson’s blue lips pull into the biggest shit-eating grin the magician has ever seen. Which is saying something, as he'd already seen several iterations of it just this morning. This one in particular also has thirty percent more blood smeared on the teeth.

Maxwell’s grip relaxes once more, but only just. Wilson tries to focus on steadily breathing through his nose to quell the spasms of his lungs rather than gasping through his mouth. He didn’t just narrowly avoid death by strangulation only to hyperventilate until he passed out.

Maxwell is still glaring at him, but seems to have calmed enough to revert back to a more human appearance. Not because he was any less furious, but because he knows Wilson has him dead to rights.

“King's Gambit.”

Maxwell closes his eyes. His posture seems to sink as he removes his hands, rocks back on his knees, and puts out his cigar. When he opens his eyes again, his anger has vanished, and exhausted exasperation has taken its place. “ _What_.”

Wilson turns his head slightly to spit out a mouthful of blood into the dirt before continuing. “You took the pawn and left your kingside weak.”

Maxwell stares, stony-faced. First at Wilson, then at the Silk tent canvas above them. When he finally speaks, his voice is flat and emotionless.

“An opening move where White leaves their own king vulnerable to offer up a pawn for sacrifice. If Black takes the pawn, they risk losing _their_ king. Meaning the only way that White can hope to win is by catching Black off-guard. It’s a foolhardy move that’s so stupidly aggressive that you'd have to be an absolute dunce to try it and an even bigger numbskull to accept it.” Maxwell slaps his forehead with the heel of his glove. “And I accepted it. Because even though I _know_ you have more balls than brains, not that that’s a high bar to clear, I _still_ didn’t think you were that much of a blithering idiot.”

His lament is interrupted by a feeble chuckle, followed by a wet cough. His voice takes on a sinister edge. “Something funny, Higgsbury?”

“Checkmate.” Wilson sits up with another chuckle. Thick with blood, but no less self-satisfied. “I win. Again.”

“I give you every opportunity to de-escalate the situation and you just. _Do not._ ” Maxwell fixes the scientist with another dark glare, though now considerably defanged by fatigue. “You know what, no. You don’t win. No mate. I decline the gambit. How do you know your little. . .” he trails off with a disdainful rolling wave of his hand, “this morning wasn’t just a fluke?”

Wilson grins, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “With a science experiment.”

For the umpteenth time today, Maxwell stares blankly at him. A full several seconds passes between each blink. “I beg your pardon.”

Fingertips flutter against either side of his neck just below the ear, like the wings of a butterfly. Maxwell bows his head, shoulders stiff and fists clenched tightly at his sides, shaking as if trying to not to lose his temper.

Then there’s a low, telltale rumbling from his chest that Wilson recognizes immediately. Followed by a close-lipped, murmuring hum.

“Hmm. Hmhmhm.”

Wilson’s grin widens. “Check.”

“Heh.”

The scientist can’t see the magician’s eyes, but he catches the barest glint of teeth. “Heh heh.”

Maxwell isn’t sure if his sanity had somehow taken a hit, or if his low stamina had weakened his resolve, or if his frayed nerves were to blame. But his walls had been damaged, and those infernal fingers were rapidly chipping away at them.

“And mate.”

“Pffft—" A snort. Wilson isn’t sure if it’s one of derision or not. “—haha.”

“I win.”

Maxwell’s brow creases as if attempting to shoot the scientist one final dirty look, but his firmly-shut eyes and tense, strained leer prevent him from doing so. “T-This doesn’t mean a-anything,” he insists through gritted teeth, one last-ditch effort to hold on to whatever shred of resolve he had left.

“Maxwell.”

“ _What_.”

“Got your king.”

“My wha—ahaha—!”

Of course. Checkmate meant the end of the first game. The board had been cleared and they'd moved right on to the second. And Higgsbury had distracted him with _another_ King’s Gambit.

“Hahaha!”

Falling for the same move twice in a row. He isn’t sure if he’s just laughing from the absurdity of it all, or because he _really_ wasn’t expecting his ears to be ticklish.

“ _Pfffahahaha!_ ”

Ears were fascinating things to be sure, or so Wilson thought. Flesh cups drilled into either side of one's head that absorb sound for processing through one's (now-scrambled) brainmeats sounded like one of his ridiculous—no, not ridiculous, they were perfectly reasonable—inventions, but those parts came standard on (most?) human bodies. He can identify the different parts of the auricle just through touch alone—the hard cartilaginous outer curvature of the helix, the second curvature of the antihelix that runs in parallel, the smooth, slightly-rounded planes of the inferoanterior and superoposterior crus, the hollow depression of the concha that leads into the auditory canal. That area was probably his new favorite part, as just barely sticking in the tips of his fingers or lightly stroking the raised cartilaginous flap of the antitragus produced a barely-perceptible keening amidst Maxwell's roaring laughter. Which sounded almost, to Wilson’s own flesh-cups-slash-auricles, like a squeal.

It was a gamble going for Maxwell’s ears, and though Wilson was not a gambling man, the tender skin and the hundreds upon hundreds of sensory receptors within ensured that those organs were a safe bet. The lobules were hit or miss (though Wilson has to quash a sudden consuming impulse to nibble on them _but he doesn’t want to think about these strange and inexplicable urges or explore why they even exist right now, damn it_ ) but science ensured he couldn’t go wrong with any of the other parts. Good ol' reliable science.

That reminds him, he had yet to take full advantage of those sensory receptors. Wilson leans in to just barely blow into one of the ears and Maxwell makes a new sound, a slightly-elevated “nngghh!” as he tries to raise his hunched shoulders in defense. So Wilson does it again.

“ _NnnNNNgghh_ cuh-HUT that out! Enough! _Enough_!”

Wilson only chuckles and brings his lips closer, his gentle breath stirring the tiny patches of downy hairs on the skin—

“ _I said **E̷̛͖̩̒͌̏͆̒͌̕̚͝͝N̸̡̛̩͚͍̤̟̟̰̩̰͉̣̽͑ͅO̴̹͕̭̱̘͉͓̪͉͗̎́̍̎Ü̷̥͌̈́̽̀̎̅̏͝͠G̶̦̱̺̋̆̏͒̏̈́͜Ḩ̵̩̗̩̜̱͖̳̒͑̎̊̒̅̕͠**_!”

Wilson is blown back, seemingly by the force of Maxwell’s fury (which should _not_ be scientifically possible), but it’s far more likely that Maxwell had simply kicked him in the chest. He _felt_ like he’d been stomped in the solar plexus, at least.

Maxwell is _incensed_. Chest and shoulders heaving with each ragged breath, face a dangerous shade of red, veins starting to bulge in his neck and forehead. He is _radiating_ darkness, leaping up from his body like fire. The Codex Umbra lies open on the ground, pages fluttering rapidly as if its holder was preparing a summon.

This. _This_ was Death #544.

“ _Get out_.”

Or not.

Wilson can barely breathe, whether from the direct hit to the ribcage or the oppressive atmosphere closing in on him, coiling around him like a snake. Luckily, he manages to wheeze out one of his many intelligent and scientific observations.

“Your stew is getting cold.”

“ **G̵̜̲̫͙̰̲̀̓̈́̔͋̐̃̕͜Ę̵̨̤̦̗͕̥͑̎͝T̵̺̔̏̋̑͛̇͑̈́̋͋̚ ̶̼̣͋̔̔̈́͗̆̄̆̏̍̅Ö̷̦̙͓̟̭̤̰̩͈̫́Û̸̢̠͇̩͕̈̋͋̓̌̅͛̔̆͑̄̕̕Ṯ̵̢̢̧̗̦̩͍̤̯̍̂͌̿̍͂̿͒͘̕͝͝**!”

Wilson scrambles to his feet like a panicked rabbit. He only makes it as far as the entrance before he faints.

Maxwell pinches the bridge of his nose.

The entire camp, barring the children, sits in silence around the main fire pit. None—not even Willow—dare speak a word as Maxwell approaches, an empty bowl in one hand and Wilson’s collar clenched in the other. He drops Wilson’s limp body to the ground in front of the terrified onlookers and shoves the clay bowl into Warly's hands.

“Your scientist is defective," he addresses the crowd. “You need a new one.”

He turns on his heel to storm off, but stops. “You. The chef.”

Warly jumps, jostling the bowl from his grasp and barely managing to catch it before it falls. “M-Me? Err, y-yes?”

Maxwell turns his head just slightly, though his back remains to the survivors. “Thank you for the food. It was delicious.”

Then the clacking of expensive low-heeled shoes fades into the darkness.


	3. Medinese Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"TAKE THAT, SANE SELF!"_  
>  \--Wilson on Obelisks (raised, insane), _Don't Starve_
> 
>  _"You're going off the deep end, pal."_  
>  \--Maxwell on an Attacking Wilson player, _Don't Starve Together_
> 
>  _"I'll show you Logic and Reason. . .those're my FISTS!"_  
>  \--Wilson on a Murderer Maxwell player, _Don't Starve Together_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _They tell me I'm a god, I'm lost in the facade / six feet off the ground at all times, I think I'm feelin' odd_  
>    
>  _They tell me they're below me, I act like I'm above / The people blend together but I would be lost without their love_
> 
> _Can you heal me? Have I gained too much? /  
>  When you become untouchable, you're unable to touch /  
> Is there a real me? Pop the champagne /  
> It hurts me just to think and I don't do pain_
> 
> \-- ~~Maxwell dropping the sick rhymes~~ just kidding it's The Living Tombstone, _My Ordinary Life_
> 
> \---
> 
>  _Touch me, Midas / Make me part of your design_  
>  \--the part of the song that makes me think of Wilson, he wants to build doors for you, give him THE KNOWLEDGE 
> 
> \---
> 
> This entire chapter was a clusterfuck to write and I have no idea where I'm going with this.
> 
> In-game, Woodie's dialogue is written in the Canadian stereotype eye dialect (pronouncing "ow" as "oo," e.g. "aboot" in place of "about"), but I've only ever heard "ow" pronounced as a long "o," e.g. pronouncing "about" as "a boat." So I took some liberties.
> 
> Apparently Klei is a Canadian company, which I somehow overlooked, which makes me even more confused in regards to Woodie's dialogue. BUT I HAVE ALREADY SPENT TOO MUCH TIME THINKING ABOUT THIS, I'M DONE NOW.

“—aking up—”

“—an you—ear me—? —ilson!”

Frenzied voices cut through the heavy velvet curtain of darkness and dense layers of cotton surrounding Wilson's battered brain. “If you could please panic a little quieter,” the scientist murmurs finally, “that would really help my concussion, thank you.”

“Oh, you jerk!” That was unmistakably Willow. “I was worried about you! Maxwell just—”

“Maxwell!?”

Wilson bolts upright and immediately regrets it. The world tilts with a sickening lurch, threatening to upend the contents of his stomach. “Movement bad—gonna be sick—"

“Ms. Wickerbottom! We need a bucket, quick!”

A weathered hand firmly guides his head as he forcefully purges the previous night’s meal into what is presumably the bucket in question.

“Ew ew ew! Oh, that’s so gross. . .”

Wickerbottom patiently strokes his hair until he heaves up nothing but bile. “Willow, will you be a dear and fetch our scientist some water so that he may rinse his mouth?”

“Right, I'm on it. Hang tight, Wilson.”

The vomiting does nothing to aid his pounding head, and only further aggravates his bruised back, burning throat, and aching ribs. But his convulsions eventually subside, and cool water is tipped into his mouth.

“There we are. I will dispose of this and return shortly.”

“T-Thank you.” He carefully lies back down. “Stars, that was unpleasant.”

Something soft dabs tenderly at his forehead. “Yeah, I blow chunks when I think about Maxwell, too.”

“Please don’t, it hurts to laugh.”

He’s too afraid to open his eyes, lest his spinning surroundings set him off again. Willow, bless her, lays a cool, damp cloth over them.

“I've had to touch so much water already today because of you.” A light punch to his shoulder. “You better be grateful, you big, dumb nerd.

“But speaking of big dumb nerds. . .” He can sense her shuffling closer, and she lowers her voice. “. . .Did something happen between you and Maxwell?”

Cold dread settles in the pit of his now-empty stomach. “What do you mean?”

“You were jumpy whenever he came up all day yesterday. Then last night we hear him hollering, and then he drags you to the front of camp and dumps you on the ground like a sack of potatoes. Not to mention you look like you lost a fight with a Bearger. What the hell happened?”

“Willow. . .”

_Maxwell's ticklish._

“. . .it wasn’t anything important.”

Willow huffs a disgusted sigh. “Oh, cut the crap, Wilson, you’re the worst liar ever.”

 _Except for when I was “taking care" of Maxwell._ He’s still a little bewildered by how well he had pulled that off. The words just dropped effortlessly from his lips, and she bought it. He isn’t sure if it was his altered mental state or what, but. . . “You know how Maxwell always has some sort of weird stuff on him? Evil Flowers, Nightmare Fuel, the Codex?”

“Uh, yeah, that’s why we made him move his tent far away from everyone else's. That stuff'll drive you crazy if you’re around it too long.” There’s a beat as the pieces click into place, and she snatches the cloth from his face to study him. “Oh no, Wilson, what did you _do!_?”

“What did _I_ do!?” Wilson retorts, snapping upright. “ _He’s_ the one who—ooogh. . .”

Willow slaps the cloth over his mouth. “Stop moving, you dope! And if you puke again I'm setting your stupid hair on fire.”

Wilson stills until his vision swims back into focus and the turbulent wave of nausea has passed. Then his bleary eyes narrow at Willow. “Mmy hair'sh nod shtupid.”

She uncovers his mouth. “Anyway, what _did_ happen, then? Because he was _pissed_. Like, you-dishonored-his-ancestors-level of pissed.”

Wilson looks down at his lap, running a hand through his hair. “I dunno, after the hounds I was checking out his injuries, and he had those gross flowers all over his tent, and I started getting all giggly and stupid and saying strange things—”

“Haha, that sounds hilarious! Wish I coulda seen it.”

“—and I dunno, maybe I came on a little strong or something—”

“‘Came on a little strong?’”

“I started asking to study his hands and taking notes, things like that.”

Willow raises an eyebrow. “How is that _strange_? It sounds like something you’d do anyway. But what’s up with his hands? Are they all shriveled and gross or something? I've never seen him without those stupid gloves.”

Wilson looks surprised. Had no one else _really_ noticed? “You’ve seen the Night Hands that put out the fires, right? Or the regular Shadow Hands that pulled us into the world in the first place? They look like that.”

“No foolin'? That’s crazy!”

“Yeah, it’s actually really interesting!” Despite the pain, he seems to perk up a little. He demonstrates using his own arm for reference, pointing to each part. “His arms are pretty normal, relatively speaking, except they look like they’ve been dipped in ink up to the elbow. The color starts fading back into his normal pasty skin tone just past the lateral and medial epicondyle of the humerus—”

“Ha! I knew he was fishbelly-white under that tacky suit.”

“But this is the strange part! It feels just like normal skin! Normal elasticity, though maybe several degrees cooler—ooh, I wonder how I could measure that?” He taps his chin. “Maybe I could jab a meat thermometer in him.”

“Yeah, I don’t think he'd be too thrilled about that. He might try jabbing something into you, too. Like that Shadow sword.”

“Oh, the other thing! His fingers, right?” Wilson wiggles his for emphasis. “You have the distal phalanx at the tip, the middle phalanx in the. . .middle, and the proximal phalanx at the end—”

“My word!” Wickerbottom re-enters the little shelter, which Wilson belatedly realizes is a lean-to they'd repurposed as an impromptu sickbay. In her hands she holds two blue-capped mushrooms and a cup of steaming fluid, probably some sort of tea. “I've never seen Miss Willow so rapt with attention in the midst of one of your spirited scientific diatribes.”

Wilson sulks, either at the comment or the prospect of trying to choke down one or two of those odd, gooey mushrooms raw, but Willow nods vigorously. “Yeah, that’s ‘cause we're talking about Maxwell’s weird gross body parts!”

Wickerbottom was not a taciturn woman by any stretch of the imagination, but even she seems to be momentarily at a loss for words. “I. . .see.”

“It’s not like—he’s not _gross_ or anything. He just has. . .you know. Claws made of nightmares for hands. _But as I was saying_ ,” he continues peevishly, annoyed with the recurrent interruptions, “his fingers are like solid bone down to the end of the proximal phalanx, right to the metacarpophalangeal joints! No, not even like bone! Something harder, like, like—like a seven, seven-point-five on the Mohs scale hard! Like tungsten, maybe? But they still bend at the joints just like fingers should! And I know I said tungsten but they don’t feel like metal, they’re smooth like polished granite or obsidian and they taste like mmm-mmmmphh—!”

Wickerbottom has taken it upon herself to pop a large mushroom into his mouth while he was distracted. “Thank God,” Willow groans. “I thought he was never going to shut up.”

Wilson scowls.

“Chew, Mr. Higgsbury.”

It was like a blob of salty tar. He swallows it with difficulty, but once it hits his stomach, the pain in his head, back, and throat start to lessen. Wickerbottom offers him the tea and the second mushroom, which he accepts gratefully. Willow is looking pensive, however.

“. . .did you say you tasted Maxwell's claws?”

Wilson chokes. He hadn’t realized he’d let that slip.

“Given that the contusions on his neck are consistent with manual strangulation, one could say Mr. Higgsbury did, in fact, get a taste of those claws. Which is worrisome in and of itself, but. . .I now have additional inquiries.”

Wilson forces down the second mushroom. And

takes

a

looooooooooooooooong

shifty-eyed

sip of tea.

“You know, not to defend the megalomaniacal murderpsycho here, but I'd probably choke you out too if you started just putting my body parts in your mouth.”

“Okay, technically, those were two different incidents. Anyway, I feel better now, so I'm just gonna get back to my—ow!”

Wilson has started to scoot off the cot he'd been lying on, but is stopped by a stern tug on the ear. “Not so fast, young man.”

“ _Et tu_ , Wickerbottom?” Wilson sighs, hanging his head.

“It isn’t my intention to pry into your personal life, my boy, but I am concerned about these rapidly-escalating dust-ups between you and Mr. Carter.”

“Not calling him any permutation of ‘Carter' is a good starting point. That’s a particularly touchy subject, and I imagine always will be.” Wilson frowns, unconsciously rubbing his neck. “As for what made him snap last night, I think that was over _me_ being too touchy. With my hands.”

Willow and Wickerbottom look at him expectantly, awaiting elaboration.

“He wouldn’t shut his stupid face while I was checking him for an injury I overlooked so I shut it for him.”

Willow slaps a hand to her face while Wickerbottom pinches the bridge of her nose beneath her spectacles. “In sum, you flagrantly refused to stop poking the hornet’s nest.”

“Well, when you put it like _that_. . .”

“ _I'm_ still stuck on what compelled you to suck on his fingers like a creepy pervert.”

Wickerbottom and Wilson both gape at Willow, though the librarian has to the decency to appear much more reserved than the scientist. No great feat, as he is now the exact shade of his waistcoat.

“. . .Science compelled me to lick them.”

“Well, gee, I wonder why he reacted so poorly, with a defense like that.” Willow puts her hands on her hips.

“Look, I wasn’t exactly in my right mind—”

“Wilson, I don’t think you’re _ever_ in your right mind.”

“Enough, both of you.” Wickerbottom shakes her head, sighing primly through her nose. “We've already frittered away enough of our morning dedicating a portion of our already limited daylight _and_ resources to treat an entirely preventable series of injuries. And to our resident medical specialist, no less! What if one of the others had some sort of horror befall them while you were incapacitated and couldn’t be treated in time?”

Wilson sinks. Even his hair seems to droop in shame.

“When you've sufficiently recovered, I need you to go into the neighboring forests to harvest Spider Glands for salves and forage for more Blue Caps. Consider that your penance.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he answers miserably. The extra chores didn’t bother him; they were soothing, in a way. On dark days when the reality of their situation threatened to crush him, they kept his mind occupied and left him tired enough at the end of the day to get a restful night’s sleep. It was important for him to be at the top of his game for the sake of the rest of the camp, as even the most unassuming wound could quickly take a turn with the threat of infection. (It was part of why he was still kicking himself for neglecting to check the bite on Maxwell’s thigh the previous morning, even if the magician had taken care of it himself. All that time he’d spent pawing him up, and he _still_ forgot to check!) Everybody was depending on him, and he enjoyed being useful, even if it was with his limited medical expertise rather than his more scientific invention-based pursuits.

But it was the disapproving headshakes, the exasperated remarks, the plain disappointment in Wickerbottom’s voice that cut right to the quick. He had dealt with that enough in “the Before time,” as the little spider child liked to call it.

“—early in the season, but it would behoove us to start harvesting our Berry Bushes and cultivating our crops now before the torrential downpours start. It has been relatively mild thus far, but we don’t know how long this reprieve will last. Especially now that we're under new management, as it were. I don’t want to make any assumptions about the Queen's character, but given that she continues to attack directly under cover of darkness as she did previously, I doubt she will be any more magnanimous than our last illustrious ruler. Are you listening, Mr. Higgsbury?”

Wilson is rubbing his face. “Yes, yes. Rainy season, Charlie might drown us. I'll go get the mushrooms.”

“Before you go.” Wickerbottom presses a small wad of wax paper into his hand. An envelope containing a few pieces of pastel-colored taffy. “A little pick-me-up to counter the sanity-reducing effects of those medicinal fungi.” She gives his cheek a pinch, sounding almost playful. “If you’re going to put anything else in your mouth, I implore you to make it these.”

Wilson snorts, rubbing his cheek. “I'll keep that in mind.”

“Take care of yourself, my boy.” She kindly ruffles his hair. “We need that scientific mind in tip-top shape. And Wilson?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t let Maxwell get to you.”

He manages a wan smile. “I'll try.”

___

“Mr. Wilson! Mr. Wilson Mr. Wilson Mr. Wilson!”

The spider child comes bounding toward him, chittering with happiness. Despite Wilson’s hatred of spiders, seeing the boy always lifted his spirits.

“Mr. Webber Mr. Webber Mr. Webber!” Wilson grins, setting his pack down, and the boy leaps on to his back. “Staying out of trouble?”

“Yes! Oh.” Webber frowns. “We prob'ly should’ve asked if you were better before we jumped on you.”

Wilson chuckles. “I'm much better now, I promise.”

“. . .Was it Mr. Maxwell who hurt you?”

Wilson stops short, turning to look into all eight of those wide, worried eyes.

“Now why would you go and say a silly thing like that?”

Webber looks down. “Wendy and I heard him yelling last night. He was far away, but we could hear him like he was in our heads. It was really scary.” Eight bristly little legs hug Wilson’s neck possessively. The chitin makes his skin itch, but the scientist doesn’t have it in his heart to dissuade the boy. “It reminded us of how Mr. Maxwell used to be, and then we saw you hurt this morning, and—"

“Hey, hey, it’s okay!” Wilson lifts the boy from his shoulders and holds him to his chest instead, perching him on the crook of his arm. “We just had an argument, that’s all. You know how grumpy Maxwell can be.”

“Then how did you get hurt?”

_You don’t win. No mate. I decline the gambit. How do you know your little. . . whatever this morning wasn’t just a fluke?_

“With a science experiment.”

Webber noticeably eases. “Oh. Please be more careful.”

Wilson laughs, a little taken aback by the gentle reprimand. “I'll try.”

Placated, Webber looks over at the knapsack on the ground. “What’s in there?”

“Oh, uh, you know. Materials. For science. And stuff.” Wilson slides the pack behind him with his foot, lest Webber catch a glimpse of the venom glands and realize Wilson had staged a massacre of all his little spider friends. “And mushrooms, though I didn’t find many. Wickerbottom will be cross with me, I'm sure.”

“It’s too bad we can’t just grow mushrooms like we do vegetables. Then we wouldn’t have to search the forests and go into the Caves to get them.”

“Growing mushrooms like crops, huh.” Wilson considers this, holding a hand to his mouth. “But you can’t just plant a mushroom in the soil like a seed. And you can’t transplant a mushroom like a Berry Bush. So. . .how do you grow a mushroom. . .?”

“On a log?”

Wilson drops his hand and stares at the boy, mystified.

“Oh. . .it’s just. . .in the Before time, we used to see mushrooms growing under logs when we played outside.”

 _Of course._ It was so obvious. Wilson breaks into a huge grin. “Webber, you’re a genius! Have you considered a career in science?”

Webber makes another joyful little chittering sound, and Wilson fishes a piece of taffy from his pocket. “Here. Don’t tell Ms. Wickerbottom I gave you candy before dinner.” He sets the child back down and gives his head a friendly pat. “Now off you go. I have some work to do.”

__

“Good day, Warly!”

“Oh, Wilson, _salut_! You’re looking much better—" Warly halts at the crude basin he's washing his hands in. “Ah, don’t take this the wrong way, _mon ami_ , but that look in your eye is. . .”

“ _Dangereux_?” Wilson gives him a sly, toothy grin.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Warly crosses his arms, but he looks amused, at least. “What can I do for you?”

“What if I told you I may be able to cultivate mushrooms from the safety of our camp?”

“So we could always have ingredients for food and medicine without risking our lives in the Caves?” Warly’s eyes light up with interest. “Go on.”

“I need some very specific materials in larger than usual quantities, and that requires enlisting the help of a few others. And what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t offer them a little something for their time and efforts? Sweetening the pot, to turn a phrase.”

“Ah, and that’s where _I_ come in. Do you have the ingredients I need to whip up some good old-fashioned bribery?”

“ _Paid research_ _compensation_. And yes.” Wilson pulls several bundles of ingredients from his pack. “As for the dishes I need. . .”

__

“Greetings, Woodie! Are you busy?”

Woodie looks up from the stump he’s sitting on, using a block of Cut Stone as a makeshift whetstone for his axe. “Hey, buddy! Glad to see you up and aboat!” He stands, wiping his hands on his flannel. “I was just doin' some edge work on Ol' Luce, but I reckon I got some time to spare. What can I do ya for?”

“I have a great idea for an invention, but I need some help.”

“Sorey, bud, I'm no good with that science stuff. I fear all I'm good for is choppin'.”

“No, see, that’s why you’re perfect! I need you to do a bit of chopping for me.”

“Well, it’s mighty tough to turn doan a request like that. How much lumber you need?”

“Well, see, here’s the tricky part. It’s not how much lumber I need so much as the _kind_ of lumber I need. Something large enough to hollow out and fill with spores, for instance.”

“Oh, you wanna make some mushroom logs, eh?”

“Wait, those already exist?” Wilson’s face falls. “Darn, I thought I was on to something.”

“Easy, little buddy, you still are! You didn’t invent ‘em, no, but they exist. They just don’t exist _here_. Remember, we're still in Maxwell’s screwy world. Just ‘cause something would work in the real world doesn’t mean it does here. . .and I reckon the opposite's true, too. But I'm no scientist.” Woodie blows some grit from the chips in Lucy's blade. “Ya can’t just drill holes in any ol' log, stuff it with spores, and call it a day like you would in the real world, eh? There’s gotta be some extra steps, or specific materials. Which is why I'm guessin' you want some Living Logs?”

Wilson brightens. “That was the idea.”

“Those are hard to come by, though, you know that. Unless. . .oh no. Oh, no no no _no_.”

Wilson gives Woodie the most innocent smile he can muster.

“Oh, no, yer not foolin' anyone with that face, bud. I shoulda known something was up when you came runnin' over with that ‘mad scientist’ look in your eye straight outta the gate. I'm sorey, but I'm not helping you. . .summon. . .”

Woodie trails off when Wilson presents him with a parcel bundled in brown paper.

“. . .are those Honey Nuggets?”

“They are.”

“Fer me.”

“Correct.”

Woodie hesitantly takes the package, eyeing Wilson with suspicion. “What’s the catch, eh?”

“No catch.” Wilson folds his arms behind his back, rocking on his heels. “It’s yours.”

“Even if I refuse.”

“Yes.”

Woodie squints at him. “Alright, here’s a follow-up question for ya. Say I don’t accept your bribe—”

“Research compensation.”

“—then what are you gonna do? Go oat and summon a Treeguard by yourself?”

“Stars and atoms, no! I'll have help.”

As if on cue, Willow jogs over, with the would-be Valkyrie in tow. “Hey, nerd, I brought Wigfrid like you asked.”

“Excellent! For you both.” Wilson presents two more parcels to either woman with a deep bow.

“Wilson, this. . .this is—!”

“My favörite meal! Höw did yöu knöw!?”

“Now hang on, hang on. You wait just _one_ gosh-darn second, _friend_.” Woodie pockets the food and jabs an accusatory finger into Wilson's chest. “How are you so sure the gals are gonna go along with your little scheme, eh? You really think they’re gonna run right into certain danger just because you waved a Turkey Dinner and a bowl of Spicy Chili under their noses?”

“What? No, of course not. Neither Ms. Willow nor Ms. Wigfrid are under any obligation to assist me should they choose not to.”

Woodie is desperately struggling to make sense of this. “Okay, so. . .then why would they?”

“Why, indeed. Wigfrid, would you like to kill a giant tree monster with me?”

“Mmf cöurse, my cerebral cömrade!” Wigfrid has already torn into a large drumstick, and pauses briefly to swallow. “It wöuld be my hönör tö slay all manner öf great and terrible beasts alöngside yöu! Yöu knöw höw I live för the hunt!”

Wilson gives Woodie a smirk and a wave of the hand as if to say “well there you go.”

“Alright, fine. But what’s Willow get oat of this?”

“Ms. Willow.” Wilson places a hand on her back. “How does one summon a Treeguard?”

“By cutting down a ton of trees, obviously.”

“And if we don’t have a lumberjack to help us, what would you say is the fastest way to fell a ‘a ton of trees' in a short amount of time?”

Willow flicks her lighter.

“What!? _No_!” Woodie is beside himself. “You’ll burn the entire forest doan! I can’t let you do that!”

“Can’t you?”

Woodie stops, staring at Wilson with a look of heretofore unseen incredulousness. “. . .You planned this. You filthy hoser, _you planned this whole thing._ Because you _know_ how I feel aboat—” Woodie rubs his forehead in disbelief. “I think I can finally see why you an' Maxwell butt heads so much. Yer both way too crafty for your own good.”

The betrayal in his voice was already a knife to the heart, but the Maxwell comparison grabs the handle and twists. “Woodie,” Wilson tries again, his voice much gentler, “I think I can really improve everybody’s quality of life with these logs. If we can grow mushrooms ourselves, we’d have a renewable source of food and medicine and we wouldn’t have to keep chancing it Underground. I didn’t _want_ to bait you, but. . .”

Woodie softens. “It’s really that important to you, bud?”

“It is. I wouldn’t have asked for your help if it wasn’t.”

Willow loops an arm around Wilson’s neck. “Besides, did you _really_ think this dork would let me get away with burning down an entire ecosystem without nagging me about it until I dropped dead?”

“That’s. . .” Woodie feels like he should have realized this a lot sooner. “That’s a good point, actually.”

“We talked it over earlier. I'm on rot and manure-gathering duty. Which he still owes me big time for.” She pinches one of Wilson's cheeks between her fingers and pulls. “Riiiiiiight?”

“Ow, yesh! Thad hurds! Stob!”

“So nothing’s getting burned. Unfortunately. I had to listen to him whine about it for like fifteen minutes when I suggested it.”

“Livig Logs are rare an' I'm nod takig thad risk.”

“Good Lord.” Woodie shakes his head, smiling in spite of himself. He gazes out at the tree-lined horizon, weighing his options, before finally asking for the only opinion that matters. “What do _you_ think, Lucy?”

The axe, predictably, says nothing. Nothing anybody but Woodie can hear, anyway. The other three wait politely.

“Guess it’s settled, then.” Woodie hoists Lucy over his shoulder. “C’mon, you lot. Let’s go anger some forest gods.”

__

It’s late in the evening when Wigfrid, Woodie, and Wilson finally return to camp, loaded down with their spoils.

“Why did yöu keep apölögizing with every strike upon the ancient wöödland guardian, cursed wöödsman?”

“Look, it’s mostly just habit, eh? But I really did feel bad aboat—whoa, Wilson, slow _doan_ , bud!”

“I can’t! Science beckons! _Thanks for your help I'll see you later bye_!”

Woodie and Wigfrid exchange quizzical looks as Wilson sprints past them, moving much too quickly for someone so encumbered by the amount of wood he’s holding.

“. . .Friend öf Yggdrasil? Döes Wilsön seem. . .different tö yöu this mörrow?”

“Nuttier than usual? Now that ya mention it. . .this _is_ the same hoser who screams at spiders and jumps at shadows. And I mean the regular kind,” he adds, “not the Maxwell kind. So fer him to wanna intentionally draw out a Treeguard, even in the name of ‘science'. . .it’s unusual, fer sure.”

“Dö yöu think. . .” Wigfrid lowers her voice, “what Maxwell said. . .?”

_Your scientist is defective. You need a new one._

Woodie frowns. “Come on, gal. Listenin' to anything Maxwell says is what got us trapped here in the first place.”

“Yöu’re nöt wröng. But what _yöu_ said, aböut böth their cunning. . .and the fact that Wilsön alsö spent time ön the Nightmare Thröne. . .”

“Gimme a hand with this stuff while we flap our gums, eh?” Woodie sets his pack down and busies himself with stacking lumber into the communal pile, and Wigfrid follows suit. “I shouldn’t have said that aboat him. He’s a good guy. Got a coupla screws loose, but don’t we all.” He accepts another bundle of logs from Wigfrid. “The thing aboat Wilson is, when he says he’s gonna do something, you just know he’s gonna make it happen, even if he has to move heaven an' earth to do it. There’s no talkin’ him doan once he gets an idea in that pointy head. You just gotta go along with it until he figures it oat. What’s that thing he started saying recently? ‘Failure is just success in progress’ or something like that?”

Woodie pulls a gold amulet from his pocket, thoughtfully running a thumb over the red gem in the center. “But even when he gets you wrapped up in one of his harebrained schemes, he still looks oat for you. I think that’s one of the main differences between him and Maxwell.”

Wigfrid touches where her own Life Amulet rests beneath her armor, thrumming with a warmth that’s almost alive.

_I’m not expecting you to get hurt or doubting your battle prowess, Wigfrid. You or Woodie’s. Just think of it as an insurance policy. And an extra thank-you._

“Yes. Yes!” She clenches her fist and thumps her chest. “Yes, you are cörrect, my friend! I must have let the spirit öf Löki that resides within the magician clöud my heart with his trickery! I shall nöt be fööled again!”

“Attagal. Now let’s see what kinda grub Warly rustled up for us tonight, eh?”

__

“Ugh, Wilson! Wickerbottom’s gonna make me take a bath now and it’s all your—"

“ _Can’t talk now give me the stuff I'll make it up to you later thanks we’ll talk soon okay I love you bye!_ ”

“Greetings, Wilson. I see Death has not yet found you this day.”

“ _Hello Wendy hello Abigail the night’s still young gotta go do science tell your uncle I said he's a jerk stay out of trouble okay bye!_ ”

“Wilson? Where have you been? Did you collect the glands—”

“ _Yes ma'am they’re in the chest will mix Healing Salves later lecture me then but science now okay bye!_ ”

“Oh, Wilson! Dinner will be ready in—"

 _“Hello Warly gonna be late take these ingredients make something nice for Webber Willow gets my dessert for a week merci d'avance okay à bientôt!_ ”

Wilson isn’t sure he ascribes to the whole continuous-intense-exercise-induces-euphoria-via-endorphins school of thought, but _man_ does he feel great. Endorphin molecules were too large to pass through the blood-brain barrier, anyway, so it had to be something else.

And Wilson suspected that something else was the irresistible urge to do _science_.

He is so absorbed in his thoughts that he nearly careens into a rather dapper-looking swath of shadow that evades him with one surprisingly fluid sidestep. “What the devil—oh, Higgsbury. You yet live.” Maxwell taps the ashes from his cigar with his smallest finger before replacing it between curled lips. “Pity.”

“ _Evening Maxwell Wendy said the same thing just slightly different guess it’s genetic your face is stupid and I hate you okay bye!_ ”

“Feeling's mutual, pa—” The scientist blows past him before he can finish his glib retort, and Maxwell watches his back retreat with disinterest. “Well. Alright, then.”

He is granted a full thirty seconds of peace before Higgsbury returns, now trotting backwards. “ _Aren’t you gonna ask what I'm doing?_ ”

“I don’t care.”

Higgsbury continues jogging in place, showing no signs of stopping. Or going back to do whatever it was he was planning on doing. He just stares expectantly.

Maxwell is fairly certain he’s properly ascertained Higgsbury’s choice of footwear by their sound alone. Cuban heels, very natty. Probably chosen more due to the wearer's insecurity about his height than a conscious effort at selecting something chic, but he had excellent taste nonetheless. If there was one thing Maxwell could appreciate, it was style.

. . .he was going to make him ask, wasn’t he.

Maxwell closes his eyes and inhales deeply through his nose. “Is it scien—”

“ _WRONG! It’s science._ ” Higgsbury then shoves some sort of wad of fibrous, leafy pulp into his chest. “ _I picked you some of those weird creepy flowers you like because I hate you and your face is still stupid and magic isn’t real OKAY BYE!"_

Maxwell looks dumbly at the Dark Petals he's now cupping in his hands as Higgsbury’s frenzied footfalls recede once more.

__

“Good evening, Mr. Maxwell.” Wickerbottom closes her book. “You so rarely grace us with your presence, during mealtimes or otherwise. May I be so bold as to inquire what the occasion may be?”

The discomfort radiating from the other Survivors is palpable. Maxwell isn’t sure if he should bask in it or be annoyed.

“I needed to distance myself from that fool's incessant racket. Did anyone else see him running through camp like a maniac, yelling a deluge of utter nonsense in one breath as he passed?”

“YES.” The fact that everyone somehow managed to answer in unison was nothing short of impressive, and said a lot about Higgsbury.

Maxwell decides to take a seat by the Survivors that appear the least uncomfortable to be around him, Wendy and Wickerbottom.

“Kinda curious about what your custom Wilson greeting was,” Willow remarks, stoking some cooling embers with a stick.

“He brought me up to speed on his hatred for my ‘stupid face’ and informed me that magic didn’t exist before throwing a bunch of flowers at me.”

The camp's atmosphere noticeably shifts from stiff uneasiness to pure bewilderment. Which is broken by a demure, girlish giggle from Maxwell’s left. 

“Heeheehee. Err, ahem.”

No one in camp, especially Maxwell, had heard Wendy laugh before now. Despite her morose and macabre personality, her laugh was musical and sweet, ethereal and soft like snowflakes on eyelashes, the delicate tinkling of silver bells. The sound is mirrored by the spirit floating next to her, partially dampened and warped by the Void, tinny and otherworldly like shattering Moon Glass but no less heartening.

“Abigail, too. Betrayed by own kin in a cruel and ironic twist of fate.” Maxwell holds his head in a gloved hand. “This is an outrage. I'm outraged.”

But he doesn’t sound outraged. Quite the opposite. To the camp’s collective shock, Maxwell was _snickering_.

One by one, each Survivor follows suit, first in disbelief, then in genuine humor, until the entire camp is in hysterics.

“. . .Have I been eating the wrong mushrooms this whole time? Because there’s no way I'm seeing or hearing what I think I am.”

“Oh, hey, dweeb! Were your ears burning—” Willow looks up, and her grin fades. “Holy heck, you look _rough_.”

Wilson drops to an undignified and ungentlemanly sitting position on the ground beside Willow, using his elbows to prop himself up against the log behind him. “Just tired, I think.”

Maxwell leans forward, an elbow on his knee, resting his chin in a cupped palm. His posture is relaxed, and the heavy-lidded gaze he's appraising Wilson under looks downright impish. “Say, pal. . .”

“Finish that sentence and the Codex Umbra is kindling.”

This earns more laughter from everyone, Maxwell included. Relief seems to wash over the denizens of The Constant like a wave, but Wilson can’t seem to shake this prickling feeling of dread that fills his chest like great fluffy mounds of fiberglass insulation.

“Mr. Warly, I think our dear scientist could use a drink to perk himself up.”

“I do believe I have just the thing, Monsieur Maxwell.” Warly places a glass in Wilson’s hand. “Spicy Vegetable Stinger, compliments of the dapper English chap with the stupid face you hate.”

“Um, thanks. Cheers, I guess.” Wilson downs it, then erupts into a coughing fit. “S-Stars, that’s hot! And cold! And delicious! And painful! I'm confused!”

More laughter. Wilson is beginning to wonder if he has stumbled into some sort of alternate dimension. Barring the one they were all already trapped in, of course.

“And chaser.” Warly passes Wilson a cup of water. “Soup's on, _tout le monde_!”

The Survivors line up to be served, but Wilson remains seated on the ground. He felt a little more human after that drink, but that itchy fiberglass sensation remained. In fact, it seemed to be migrating to his head now. He felt fuzzy and uncomfortable and aware of the pumping of his own blood as it moved through his exhausted, leaden body. The respiration of his cells. His internal temperature regulation. The misfiring of his synapses. He can feel _all_ of it.

“—sur—you don’t—ing to eat—ilson?”

“What?” The word oozes out of his mouth like hot tar, never quite leaving and sticking to his lips, even as it pools on the ground in front of him.

“—need som—ing in your—omach.” He _thinks_ that’s Warly’s voice, but the whistling in his ears makes it hard to hear. “—ake—ou som—broth—?”

Wilson tries to think through the film covering his brain, tries to hear through the howling wind in his ears, tries to see through the layer of petroleum jelly smeared over his eyes, but all he can do is remain bonelessly propped up against the log, dead-eyed and lips parted.

“—uddy—!”

“—ister—ilson—!”

“—ggsbury—!”

And then there is only the Void.

“Wilson! _Wilson!_ What do we do!? He’s totally checked out!”

 _“Stop screaming and let me think!”_ Maxwell flips frantically through the Codex. “Woodie, Wigfrid, you were with him last, what were you doing?”

“Wilsön required Living Lögs för an experiment, sö we went Treeguard hunting—”

“ _You deliberately summoned a Treeguard!?_ ”

“I'm sorey for my impertinence, Ms. Wickerbottom, ma'am,” Woodie interjects, “but that’s _really_ not important right now! But yes, he was dead set on gettin' some Living Logs because he wanted to try growing mushrooms for the camp.”

“We talked about it earlier, as well,” Warly adds gravely. “He wanted to make it so we would always have ingredients for food and medicine on hand. I think because he felt guilty about having to dip into the Blue Cap stores himself.”

“. . .Because I lectured him about limited resources this morning.” Wickerbottom holds her head, distraught. “Wilson, you sweet, idiotic, foolish boy, what have I done. . .?”

“Eating raw mushrooms as medicine, fighting a Treeguard,” Maxwell rubs his temples. “No wonder Higgsbury was so manic earlier, the idiot's spent all day driving himself crazy.”

“Uncle,” Wendy pipes up, though almost too quietly to hear, “you said Wilson gave you some flowers earlier. Were they perchance Evil Flowers?”

_I picked you some of those weird creepy flowers you like because I hate you and your face is still stupid and magic isn’t real OKAY BYE!_

Maxwell pulls the handful of petals from his pocket. “ _Jesus Mary and Joseph,_ ” he mutters under his breath. “Warly, we need something to get Higgsbury’s sanity back up _immediately_.”

“Already on it.” Warly mixes another Spicy Vegetable Stinger and kneels in front of the catatonic scientist. “Willow, hold him up for me, please?”

“O-Okay. Up we go, n-nerd.” She holds Wilson against her chest, and Warly carefully tips his head back and pours the vegetable cocktail down his throat. “Come on, _mon ami,_ come back to us. . .”

Wilson’s eyes stare blankly ahead, his lips just barely moving. Warly leans in to listen.

“‘Maxwell.’”

And in seconds he’s kneeling beside him opposite Willow and Warly, Codex Umbra open and at the ready. Though for what, he doesn’t know. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I can hear T̴̩͎̦̹̳̄͆h̸̨̹̮̬̣̆̃ȇ̷͔͉̃́̽m̵̦̰̝̜̲͂͋. . .”

Willow and Warly are the only ones close enough to see how wide Maxwell’s eyes have become. “Higgsbury, listen to me.” He speaks slowly, making a concentrated effort to keep his voice firm and even. “ _You have to fight it._ ”

“Knowledge. . .T̵͍̋̍͜h̵͍̊̉e̶͇̻̊̂ŷ̶̜͘'̶̛̣̌͜r̵̡͐̈ę̴̟̉̚ promising me. . .knowledge. . .” He breathes a soft, almost blissful sigh. “Showing me. . .terrible, beautiful things. . .”

“ _Shit_ ,” Maxwell hisses to himself. Warly and Willow exchange a worried look. Maxwell didn't often curse like that. “Warly, I _really_ hate to keep asking—”

“P̸l̵y̶i̸n̸g̵ ̴m̷e̴ ̷w̷i̵t̸h̴ ̷m̸o̶r̶e̵ ̴d̷r̸i̷n̷k̸s̶,̶ ̷W̶i̴l̶l̵i̴a̵m̶ ̶C̶a̴r̵t̴e̴r̷?̴ Y̵o̸u̸ ̸f̸i̵l̴t̷h̶y̸ ̶o̶l̷d̴ ̵m̴a̸n̷.̴”

A shockwave rips through the camp, knocking each Survivor backwards. A chorus of feeble, pathetic cries float into air with the crackling embers of the campfire.

“—can't breathe—”

“—it hurts—”

“—my head—”

“—can’t move—"

Maxwell gasps and wheezes, struggling to lift himself from his new position face down in the dirt. Through bleary eyes, he can just barely make out a pair of smart footwear approaching him, and realizes he was correct in his earlier assessment. Cuban heels.

He is dimly aware of pages rustling, and his innards turn to ice the second it dawns on him that the Codex Umbra is no longer in his possession.

Higgsbury clicks his tongue derisively as he thumbs through the tome. “ _Stars_ , your Latin is _atrocious_. But I suppose that’s to be expected with a third-rate charlatan who fancies himself intelligentsia. Ha, and I thought _I_ had a tendency to overstate my abilities.”

“The Codex. . .give me. . .”

“You want it back? Go get it, then.” Wilson tosses it into the darkness beyond the fire pit’s protective ring of light. “I'd make it quick if I were you. The Shadows are hungry and Charlie’s waking up.

“Personally, I think the books that our loquacious old spinster reads to the children might be more your speed. Ever read _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_?” The possessed scientist pushes up on Maxwell’s Adam's apple— _laryngeal prominence_ , if one wanted to be scientific about it—with the toe of his shoe, delighting in watching the prone magician cough and reflexively try to swallow. “You'd love it. It’s about a talentless balding hack fraud who tricks people into believing he’s a great and powerful magician. He can’t even use his limited power to successfully send anyone back home, either. Sounds kinda familiar, thinking on it.”

“And you'd think a self-proclaimed scholar,” Maxwell chokes out with difficulty, “would have remembered the story of Faust and what happened to him when he made a deal with the Devil in exchange for unlimited knowledge.”

Wilson laughs, a dark sound as rife with amusement as it is with contempt. “Oooh, touché! That’s what I love about you, Maxwell. You’re just so full of piss and vinegar.”

“Wilson, stop!” Willow has managed to crawl over to him, desperately grasping at his ankles. Her voice is thick with pain and tears. “Please, this isn’t you!”

“Oh, Willow.” The scientist bends down to pat her head. “Dear, sweet, psychotic Willow. My very first friend.” He yanks her up by the hair and tosses her aside like a rag doll. “G̸o̶ ̶c̶r̷a̵w̸l̶ ̴b̵a̶c̸k̸ ̴i̷n̸t̵o̸ ̴t̵h̴e̴ ̸g̴u̴t̷t̷e̶r̵ ̵y̶o̵u̵r̵ ̴p̴a̵r̶e̴n̵t̸s̷ ̶l̸e̴f̷t̴ ̷y̶o̶u̸ ̴i̴n̶,̵ ̵y̷o̶u̷ ̸r̸o̵t̴t̵i̶n̷g̸ ̵w̷h̷o̵r̷e̸.̴”

“ _How dare you._ ”

Maxwell is white with rage, hunched over and unsteady but now on his feet. “ _How dare you speak to her that way._ ”

“Oh, this is p̸̡̜̯̝̘̥͔͚͉̆̔̊r̴̝̳̱̥̺̘̀́̄͛͗͒̃̾̓̕͝e̵̪͂̃̀̐̋̋̔̇̉̕̕͝c̶̣̱̘̫̯̟̣̩̗̋̒̏̃̈́̏̓̐͑̎̃i̴̧̛̤̱̻͚͕͎̓̓͛͌͋̍o̵̡̡̧̟̭̲̱̦̼̹̒̅̈̄͆͐̈̃̐̄̂͘̚͘u̷̡̡̫̫͓͎̬̺̝̲̠̒͠ŝ̴͓̦̰̖̍̈́!” Wilson’s wolfish grin stretches unnaturally across his face as he clasps his hands together. “As I recall, _you_ said that _exact thing_ to her when she first got here. I had to hold her while she sobbed herself to sleep.” Wilson shakes his head. “Then today I leave to go invent for five minutes, and when I come back you’re all chummy and laughing and bestest-ever-pals with everybody. You know, all the people you degraded and demeaned and murdered repeatedly. Referred to exclusively as your 'pawns.' But sure, sit on your high horse and get all self-righteous at _me_.”

Maxwell doesn’t have a response to this.

“In fact, why don’t you tell everybody how many times you killed me personally? I'm sure they’re all _dying_ to know.”

“. . .five. . .dred. . .”

“L̶̡̢̹͕͇̯̜͚̻͖̎̆͒̊̅̃̓͑̋̚͜ò̴̡̳͉̱̪͔̤̫̫̪̈́̎̐͗̎̑̄̃͠u̵̧̱̩͉͎̩̖̗̙̖̳̅͑d̸̳̼̠͔̉̀̄̌͋͊̊͊̈͂̀͠e̸̙͇̣̯͍̯̻͉̬̭͚͈͑̓͌̎͜͜͝r̶̰̰͉̤͎̪̭̼͇̳̗̠̎͌̽͆̂͑̉͝.”

“ _Five hundred and forty-three times._ ”

“And last night you tried to make it five hundred and forty-four. Because I bruised your precious ego.” Wilson cow-kicks him square in the sternum with his heel, knocking him flat on his back. “P̵̹͉͂̾̆̾͗̅̈̂͋̒͠à̶̧̜̲̝̘̦͉̗̜̟̪̺͈̄̔͛͒͒̈́̔͌̿̑t̴̨̞͇̞͕̪͆̇͌̔͒̿̄̉̑̓h̷͙̭̱͌́͒̅̓͊͛͛̒̕ê̵̡̘̦̆̉̓̾̃͊̚͘̕͝͠ṱ̷̱̰̗̖̬̜̮͙͉̥̪̖͙̈́̃̔̌̾̽͒͋i̶̛͉̺̥̰̜͇̗̼͕͙͈͎̫̅̉̋̇͐̃̆̍͌̀̓̓̕c̶̨̢̛̙̪̟̮̤̦͚̖̈̍͊̃̈́̾̒̐̋̄̏̽͝. You’re a d̴͈̣͍̝͇̪̘̠̬̆̍̂̐̌̒̈̇̔̈͒͠i̷̡̧̹̱̰̰̫͙͛̀s̶͉̫̺̼̮̕g̶͓̖̲̪̫̦̳͕̤̬̪͐͐̈́̇͆̑̐͊̆̂̈́̓̓̕r̴̡̪͍̭͇̤͈̣͓͋͑͝a̷̧̛̰̜̝̫̼͓̞̳̝̱̎́͒̂̍͑͒͜c̶̗̠͈̺̰͉̲̦͍̬̺̳̠̖͐̑́͒̿̇̃̑̄͝͝e̸̢̺͕͙̖̖͉̯̙̗̥̠͉͊͂͛̄̍̈́͂͌̕͜.”

“Higgsbury—” Maxwell wheezes, “why are you doing this?”

“Why? I have my reasons. I̶ ̶h̷a̶v̸e̶ ̵f̷i̷v̵e̸ ̵h̷u̴n̵d̵r̶e̷d̴ ̴a̵n̵d̶ ̶f̶o̵r̵t̵y̷-̶t̸h̵r̷e̴e̸ ̸r̴e̴a̵s̴o̷n̶s̸.̶”

The Survivors watch helplessly as Wilson straddles Maxwell’s chest and punches him in the face.

“ _Wilson_!”

And punches him again.

“ _Wilsön_!”

And again.

“ _Bud, stop_!”

And again.

“ _Science man_!”

Wickerbottom clutches Wendy and Webber protectively to her bosom, covering their eyes. But they can still hear. The children wince every time a slug connects with the former King's head. Both curl in on themselves when Maxwell’s nose breaks with a nauseating crunch.

“Not even a whimper out of you. And usually you’re such a little b̷̛̬̺̹̏̄͜i̶̦̽̐̎͘t̸̡̙͑͐͆̋c̸̻͛̃̏̈́ḧ̶̻̣̫́͝ when it comes to pain.”

Maxwell remains silent. He doesn’t even try to stem the stream of blood pouring from his nose.

At least, Higgsbury _thinks_ it’s blood. There’s something else mixed with it, some sort of semi-gelatinous cloudy black fluid coagulating amidst the blood cells and hemoglobin and plasma.

“Do you _bleed_ Nightmare Fuel, too?” Higgsbury’s eyes light up in that manner that each Survivor is _all too familiar_ with.

“ _H̷͈͊ǫ̸͊ẃ̶̗ ̶͓̈́v̷͇̂e̵̗͋r̴̜̓y̶̲̍ ̶̞̔i̸̙̅n̵̖̉t̶͙̔e̸̬̎r̴̮̋e̵̤s̸̜͘ẗ̸̺́ḯ̶͓n̸̖g̴̥͠ ̵͇̈́._ ”

“ _No!_ ” Willow shrieks. “ _Wilson, no! Stop!_ ”

“Oh, my dear girl, you know me so well! Mmm, I can’t remember the last time I did a proper vivisection.” Wilson pulls a crude straight razor from his pocket, idly turning it over in his hands. “By the by, Maxwell, here’s your Latin lesson for the day, since I know you've been struggling with it: the word ‘vivisection’ comes from the Latin _vivus_ , ‘alive,’ and _sectio_ , ‘cutting.’” He’s practically _beaming_. “Isn’t knowledge _grand?_ ”

Maxwell closes his eyes as the razor’s handle traces along the arteries in his neck. “We're all gonna have _so much fun_ learning together. You, me, and T̴̥̦͍̠͓̑̐̒̽́̏͌͐͘͜h̶͚̖͖̺͉̲̯̼̰̉̆̉͜ë̶̢̤̲͖̤͚̜͈͍ͅͅm̴̞̯̯͚̦̒̉̀̾̌͆͘͜͝͝.” He is distinctly aware of lips brushing his ear, and he is at least grateful that Higgsbury granted him the one small mercy of whispering quietly enough so that only he could hear.

“I bet you’re getting off on this, too, you _d̴͙̪͖̼̱̥̲̞͖̦̅͠ẽ̸̯͖̗͍̯̭̥̦̫̈́͊̒͊g̸̢̼̞̣̳̬̺̬̻̖̥̔͊͒̆ͅe̴̢̬̫͚̦͎̪͙͓͔͓͐̒͋͌̒̑̈͗̆͋n̸̨̠͍̞̼̫̟̓͌̈́̃̏͐͋͗̕e̶͎̻̩͍̯͗͗̊͋̏̂̐́̇̚͜͝r̸̨̛̰̙͇̞̐̓̒͑̽̃̈́̌͗̉͠ͅa̸͈͐͊̄t̴̢͇̙̗̥̩̝̣̭̆̓e̸̢̎̾̒́̎͗̈́̽̌̉̓͐̈̽._ ”

“Now.” Higgsbury sits back up. “Where, oh where, shall I make my first incision. . .? Oh, the possibilities are _endless_.”

“You can’t!”

Wilson turns his head in the direction of the voice. “Beg pardon?”

“You can’t,” Wendy repeats, setting her jaw and squaring her shoulders. “You can’t do this.”

“And why not, yellow dumpling, why not?”

“You were both on the throne. You’re two Kings.”

Wilson blinks. “I'm afraid I don’t follow, darling.”

“You wiped out everyone else on the ‘Board.’ You two are all that’s left. Two Kings.”

Wilson splits into a delighted grin. “Oh, I see! You mean a Medinese victory!” He brings his bloodied hand to his cheek, positively beside himself with glee. “What a treat you are! A grandmaster in the making!” Wilson clears his throat, as if addressing a lecture hall full of students. “For the uninitiated, when all other pieces have been taken and only a King remains—let's make Maxwell Black, a delightfully debonair Black King—that’s known as a ‘Bare King.’ Or ‘Lone King,’ if you prefer. Now, a Bare King cannot hope to win, because a Bare King can never give check, and therefore cannot deliver a checkmate. So when poor, crusty, old Black King Maxwell was faced down by an intrepid White Gentleman Scientist Pawn, well.” He pauses. “Well, _was_ a Pawn. I guess I got promoted to Rook after all those trials.” He giggles to himself. “And then I got kinged!

Wait.

Wait, that’s checkers.” Wilson gestures disapprovingly at Maxwell with the razor. “You are _really_ bad at this whole not-mixing-your-metaphors thing.

“Anyway. The point our littlest Carter is making is that two Kings cannot check each other. So the game ends in a draw. That’s a Medinese victory. Bit of a misnomer, though, I know. Very confusing. In conclusion, Maxwell is _shit_ at chess, Latin, and magic. Which isn’t real. And his face is still stupid. Thank you.” Wilson takes a small bow.

The Survivors stare at him in stupefied silence.

“. . .Man, tough crowd.”

“Not so easy, is it.” Maxwell spits out a tooth.

“The stage is your domain, I suppose, not mine. Oh, but there’s just onnnnne more teensy-tiny little detail your lovely little chess prodigy did not consider.”

Maxwell raises an eyebrow. “And that is?”

Wilson steeples his fingers together. “A King can’t defeat another King.” He smirks, jerking his head in the direction of the fire pit. “But a Queen can.”

The last thing Wilson sees is the expression of pure, unadulterated panic on Maxwell’s face before the camp is plunged into total darkness. And with the darkness comes the rush of movement, an ominous hissing as Charlie gears up to strike.

“C̷̤̋̽͐́h̵̢̞̱̼͙̜̺̣̻̃̐̄͗̒̃̓̈́̅̀͘͠e̶̻̻͛̂̈́͘͝͝c̴͎͙̞̓̿̆̾̍͂͌͆͂̌̓͘͘͠ḳ̴̗͙͙͍͍̘͇͎̭̯̞̊̇m̸͙̙͉͕̤̗̱͉̥͗̅̈̂̃̾̾̌̽̑̊͗̕͝͠ạ̶̧̫̱͖̰̝̪̉̎́̀͒͂t̵̢̿͂̔ė̷̛͔̎̓̈́͛̈̋̕.”


	4. The Wayward Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can perform amputations if anyone'd like to wear it for real."
> 
> \--Wilson inspecting a Peg Leg, _Shipwrecked_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, my lovelies, this is kind of a short chapter. It'll get smutty again eventually, I promise.

It all happened so fast.

The Survivors had been so distracted that no one had noticed how low the fire had gotten. Probably intentional on Wilson’s part. Or perhaps not. It was hard to say.

Early in their truce, Wilson had once tried to describe the sound of Charlie’s approach to Maxwell. He so eloquently described it as a “whooshing noise,” like the sound of wind picking up, combined with the hissing a steam radiator makes as it heats. He can hear what he meant now, but what he wasn’t prepared for was. . .everything else.

It starts with what feels like a steep drop in air pressure that falls in time with the darkness, like being caught right beneath where a violent storm is forming. It sets his ears to ringing and makes his joints ache down to the very marrow of his bones. Then he's greeted by the cloyingly-sweet scent of roses wafting in from somewhere, and then it’s _everywhere_ , it burns his sinuses in spite of his broken, blood-choked nose and he can almost taste the waxy petals in his mouth. Then, finally, the “whooshing" begins. Faint, at first, like a woman's pleased, breathy exhale.

He bellows over to Willow to relight the fire. Or at least he thinks he does. He can’t hear himself with the sudden pressure change clogging his ears. (Higgsbury would have an explanation for that once he came to his senses, no doubt.) But his message must have reached her somehow: he can soon see the tiny tongue of flame from her lighter. That’s all he can see in the suffocating darkness, along with the delicate ectoplasmic glow of a frenzied Abigail. She spins in frantic circles around her sister, trying to use the weak light of her body—or lack thereof—to keep Charlie at bay.

He isn’t sure when he must have shoved Higgsbury off of himself and staggered to his feet, but he _knows_ he yells this time.

“Charlie! It’s me! Maxwell!”

A man with no more than an ounce of humanity who had spent even an eighth of Maxwell’s tenure on the Nightmare Throne would have more regrets than Maxwell did. A veritable mountain of regrets, even. For a normal man, the prospect of breaking the heart of the brother he loved, taking away his only living daughter, and trapping her in a never-ending feedback loop of torture, death, and resurrection for all of eternity, would rank among the top. Or at least, that’s how Wilson felt about it.

“It’s Maxwell! Don’t you remember? _Maxwell!_ ”

But Maxwell was not a normal man. Or perhaps Wilson had simply been conflating regret with remorse. Maxwell had regrets, but he showed little, if any, remorse for his actions. It was why, even while under T̴̜̻͔̜͇͂͝͝h̸͙͌̑̓ě̵͍̰̮̓͒͆į̸̧̛̖̺͚̓͒̅͊r̶͈̐͊̀͗ influence, Maxwell’s anger over his treatment of Willow had confused him so much.

_How dare you speak to her that way._

It’s only now that T̴̜̻͔̜͇͂͝͝h̸͙͌̑̓ě̵͍̰̮̓͒͆į̸̧̛̖̺͚̓͒̅͊r̶͈̐͊̀͗ hold on him is starting to slacken that he realizes Maxwell’s anger wasn’t in defense of Willow at all, but because he had already made the mistake of taking one of his dearest friends for granted. A woman he loved. A woman who had once loved him.

That was the only thing Wilson and any of the other Survivors could say with certainty that Maxwell truly regretted, if the pain in his voice was any indication. The only thing he was showing any remorse for at all, right here, right now, was damning his former magic act assistant to his own personal hell.

_“CHARLIE, PLEASE!”_

It was about to get him killed.

Maxwell isn’t sure where all this wind had come from. It howls in his ears and his hair and clothing whip around him as if he were standing in the middle of a storm cell. The stinging gales rip the moisture from his eyes and he instinctively screws them shut them while shielding his face with his arms in defense.

**“ _CHARLIE!_ ”**

The full force of her attack slams into him like an oncoming train.

He'd always had such terrible luck with trains.

It takes several minutes for his addled mind to register that he’s still alive. His chest stung and that hit had sent him flying, but he's alive. He must have the Devil’s own luck. Very apropos, he thought.

When he finally manages to open his eyes, he sees the firelight has returned. He starts to sit up, instinctively groping around for the Codex Umbra—

“. . .hrghh. . .”

—and finds Higgsbury is gurgling on top of him, eyes dilated, jaw slack, limbs curled and twitching as if he were suffering some sort of petit-mal seizure.

Maxwell reflexively shoves him off in shock.

“Hrrk!”

A spasm jolts through Higgsbury’s battered frame as he hits the ground on his back, and he starts making horrible, wheezy gagging noises. Great, he was going to choke to death on his own sick if Maxwell didn’t intervene.

Maxwell is debating whether or not to turn him on his side when the scientist suddenly arches backwards with enough force to snap a spine like a dry wishbone, and finally vomits—

—a geyser of thick, congealed black gel that wriggles out of his mouth like a fat eel before spinning in a spiral in the air and vanishing into a puff of smoke.

. . .The Queen had “checked” the wrong King. But how? Based on what Higgsbury had told him, she never missed her mark. And there was no way the scientist would have jumped in front of him after everything that had transpired. But at least her little love tap knocked loose whatever Shadow(?) creature(?) had been possessing Higgsbury, though his head is pounding far too much to even begin to speculate how something like that— _anything_ about that—could have happened in the first place. And he would really also prefer to deal with the blood on his face before anything else, as it was drying into a tacky crust over his lips and making him itch.

Wilson is sitting up now also, his breathing labored and his body wracked with strained, choking coughs.

“. . .You good, pal?”

“Ah. . .hahh. . .” His coughing fit finally subsides and he swallows in between gasps for breath, holding his hand to his chest as if trying to keep his heart from pounding out of it. “Hah. . .hahh. . .”

“Well, upright and alive is good enough, I supp—”

**“ _A̷̛͔̙̲̳͉̞̺̥̟̱̿̾̔̐͆̋͂̈́̕͘Ȁ̶̛̞̥̼̟̝͑̒̐̋̀̑̍̄̚͠A̶̤̣̮̤̮͎͙̳͍̠̘̅̈́͗̾͛̒À̴̼͎̼̺̠͔͚͔̪̈́A̴̢̢̩̥̝̯̺̟͉̱̣͍̔͆̌͆͝Ā̵̢̨̬̙̰̦̭̳̳̭̏̉̒͋̄͌̓̈́̅̇͜͠͠U̴̡̢̧̧̦͈̣͖̒̋͆̋̉́́͜U̸͇͂͛͘̚U̵̜͑͒͐͆̈́̕͠͠͠Ủ̵͚̉̀͑͊́͘̕͝͠Ų̵̡͙̙̥̖̹̲̻̹͒̆Ư̵͍̞̹̮̾̅̐̉̉͒͆̽̈̽̇G̷̰̓̎̿̈G̵̢̬͍̤͍͙̮͚̔͒̄͐̆̓͂̑̽͐͜͠͝G̷͇͖͚͓̅̅͠G̴̡͉͔͕̞̻̖̅͜Ḩ̴͍͔͚̣̰͉̠̺͇͙͚̫̒̃̋̃͐H̴̥͉͌̂H̷̡͎͕̮͍͈̗͙͍̰̝̼͙̉̋̉̄̇͗̆̃̅͑̓̀̌͒H̸̨̤̫̺̹̖̍̓̌͋H̴̨͕͓̗̻̥̗̄̈́̾͒́̕͘̚͜͠͝ͅH̵͚͒͊̒͛̅̍͘͠H̷̖͉̻̟̪̱̫͎͓̠̲̯̞̃̑̋̐̀̍̆ͅ!_ ”**

Maxwell nearly jumps out of his skin at what had to be the most anguished, primal banshee wail he'd ever heard in his life. It's _almost_ enough to stir up some faint semblance of sympathy in whatever was left of his heart, but he mostly finds himself irritated.

“ _Are we going to do this every goddamn ti—"_

**“ _A̷̰̰̘͍͖̥͙͕̣̰͂͋́̈́̔́̑̀͝A̷̢͙̘͓͎̣͍̺̓̆͋̔͋́̋̕A̵̩͙̜͎͍̍́Ä̴̢͉̼̤͉̹̃͌̑͆̓̾͜͝͠Ą̶̧̥̩̜̹̬͌͝H̶̱̮͚̣̼̼͐̍͆͌̋͘H̴͔̦̦̗̚!̴̡̡̜͇̹̠̪̗͒͘͜ ̵̧̛̘̯͕̲̦̯͈̏͐̾͗A̴̩͉̟̤̐̉͘A̸͈͙̩͂͌͆͑̑͛͝A̴̧̖̦̻̥͙̠͙̽̒̔̆̾̏̿̋A̵̮̫̞̪̥̫̤̞̜̿͐͑̐͐̇̚͜͝Â̷͕͍̳̦̞̟̞Ǔ̴̡͎̝̭͐̄͝Ȕ̴̡̟͓̞͔̥͎͓̄͜G̴̡̫̑̊͆̈́̚H̵͉͕͕͉͊̉̈͊̕͠ͅ!̵̱͓̖͔̟͉͚̰͛͠_ "**

“Stop screaming, dammit! Higgsbury! _HIGGSBURY!_ ”

He grabs Wilson in an attempt to calm him, which of course sends the scientist spiraling into a frenzied bout of thrashing on top of all the screaming.

“Get yourself under control before I do it for you, you overgrown child! Enough! **E̴̯̰̲͎͓̾N̴̢̦͆̓͆̚͠Ö̶͇̔U̸͈̖͇̜͖̱͆͆͐̊̕͜Ḡ̴̝̪̼͇̓̓́̎̈́͋̉̒H̸̨̹̟̋͒̉͛̌͝!̸̗̼͍̑** ”

Maxwell was stronger than he looked. Or maybe he was just _done._ Either way he had managed to wrangle Wilson half-sitting into his lap, almost as if he were a child after all, with one arm locked around his neck in a chokehold and a leather-gloved hand clamped tightly over his mouth. Maxwell had had to contort himself around Wilson to physically subdue him given their significant differences in height, and his decision to cross his legs over Higgsbury’s waist as an added security measure was something his back was going to give him grief about tomorrow. But this position was still not nearly as uncomfortable as the one he’d maintained on the Nightmare Throne for an obscene amount of time, so he’d tolerate it for now.

“Here's the plan, pal. We're going to sit right here and have some Dapper Gentlemen Calm-Down Time until you pull yourself together. Because that’s what we are, right? Two dapper gents?”

“Mmh.”

“Excellent. And if you decide to be very _ungentlemanly_ and bite my hand like I _know_ you’re thinking of doing, I _will_ make it five hundred and forty-four.”

“Rrrr.”

“I can do this all night, pal. Into the next morning if I have to. I've the patience of a saint.”

“ _Rrrr_.”

“Really not helping your case here, Higgsbury.”

Wilson is vaguely aware of Maxwell performing some sort of small gesticulation out of his line of sight, and he jerks in Maxwell’s grip when a Shadow Hand reaches out of the ground in front of him. Maxwell leans forward, just slightly, to allow the Shadow Hand to place a cigar in his mouth before dismissing it with a short wave.

“Ms. Willow. May I trouble you for a light?”

“U-Uh, y-yeah, sure. Here.” Willow scoots over to hold the flame of her lighter to the end of Maxwell's Shadow cigar, which he putts on until it catches.

“You’re a peach.” He raises his head to exhale smoke away from her. “Please bring me the Codex, too, if you would. Just set it down right there. Thank you.”

“Mm mmmh mh.”

“I'm being awfully polite? I may not be a decadent little dandy like you, but I at least have manners.”

“Mmh mh.”

“‘Debatable,’ he says. For all your good breeding and beating everyone over the head with your ‘gentleman scientist’ routine every hour of the day, you can really be quite churlish when you want to be.”

“Wait, I'm confused.” Willow looks at Wilson. “What’s all this stuff about dandies and breeding? Are you trying to say this nerd is _actually_ some kinda blueblood?”

“He never told you? Strange. I figured if he'd divulged anything about his past to anyone, it would at least be to you. But since everyone now knows my real name—and if I recall correctly it was _you,_ Mr. Higgsbury, who let it slip that Wendy was my niece—I'd say turnabout is fair play.”

Wilson wasn’t about to tell him everybody _already_ knew his real name thanks to his big mouth.

Maxwell puffs out a series of smoke rings into the air. “Wilson Percival Higgsbury is the scion of a well-to-do noble family who sent their underperforming son to study medicine in the States. Not an uncommon practice for wealthy families to send their spoiled— _those better not be teeth I feel, Mr. Higgsbury._ ” Maxwell tightens the arm across his throat, and Wilson submits. “At any rate, in spite of his medical background, he decided to apply his intellect, such as it is, to science. Though I suppose there’s quite a bit of overlap.”

Wilson deflates in Maxwell’s arms, looking both chagrined and defeated.

“Now. Are we calm?”

Wilson nods.

“No voices? No T̴̩͎̦̹̳̄͆h̸̨̹̮̬̣̆̃ȇ̷͔͉̃́̽m̵̦̰̝̜̲͂͋?”

Wilson shakes his head.

“Is my face still stupid?”

Wilson nods and Maxwell actually chuckles. Then there is a pause as he hesitantly poses his next question, and for one brief moment, he sounds almost. . .vulnerable.

“《 Is my Latin that bad? 》”

Wilson was surprised he not only asked him this, but also managed to do it in Latin. Presumably so no one could understand him, though Wilson is almost positive Wickerbottom can, if the faintest glimpse of a smile crossing her lips was any indication. He raises his hand and makes a half-hearted “so-so" motion.

“《 . . .I'd like to go over the Codex with you later, then. 》”

Wilson gives him a thumbs-up, and Maxwell releases him.

“I'll treat you in a second. Just. . .I need a minute.” Wilson rubs his face.

Willow scoots back over. “You gonna be okay, Wilson?”

“I think so, yes.” But his expression is distraught. “I'm sorry, Willow, I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t.” She gives his head an affectionate pat. “Don’t worry your pointy little hair about it,” she grins, “ _Percival_.”

Wilson blushes, scowling. “Percival is a perfectly good name, thank you very much.”

“I concur.” Good old Ms. Wickerbottom. “He was one of King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table, so the legend goes.”

“A knight? I thought you were the White King.”

“Only when it annoys you, Maxwell.”

“You always annoy me.”

“Then I'm always the White King.”

“The king is, by all measures,” Wickerbottom interrupts, “a liability to everyone on the board.”

Woodie grins. “Do ya mean the Black one or the White one, ma'am?”

Wickerbottom smartly adjusts her spectacles on her nose. “Yes.”

The dirty looks on both Wilson's and Maxwell’s faces sends everyone back into hysterics. The relief that spreads through the camp is undeniable now that both Wilson and Maxwell are seemingly back to normal, though “normal" was a relative term.

“. . .I feel like I've been walking around with a ‘Kick Me' sign on my back all day.”

“Welcome to the club, pal.”

Wilson frowns. “Oh, right, sorry. Let’s get you fixed up.” He rolls up his sleeves. “Is anyone else hurt? Wendy? Webber?”

“I am uninjured, thanks to Abigail.”

“I think we're all okay, Mr. Wilson.”

The other Survivors murmur in agreement.

Wilson gives a sigh of relief. “Thank the stars for that. Could someone boil some water for me? There should be some soap I made around here too, somewhere.”

“Got you covered, _mon ami._ ”

“Great, thanks, Warly. Wendy, could you please put a Thermal Stone in the Ice Box for me?”

“Of course.”

“Webber, I need a big ol' bunch of Spider Silk from the medical chest.”

Webber gives him a three-armed salute. “You can count on us, Mr. Wilson!”

“And you. Give me that.” He takes the cigar out of Maxwell’s mouth and, to the astonishment of the magician, puts it in his own. Maxwell stares at him, completely baffled.

“You, uh, taking up smoking, pal?”

“After today?” Wilson removes it from his lips, holding it between thumb and forefinger, smoke curling delicately around his tired words as he exhales. “I'm considering it.” 

“Mr. Higgsbury, I’m surprised at you! You really need to be setting a better example for the children.”

“With all due respect, Ms. Wickerbottom,” Wilson takes another pull of the cigar, “I think we crossed that bridge when I almost filleted Maxwell in front of everyone.”

“Have you done those vivi-whatevers before?” Willow pipes up. “That’s the burning question _I_ need to know the answer to.”

“Not on people, if that’s what you’re asking,” Wilson states matter-of-factly, and for some reason that sends a chill up Maxwell’s spine.

“Have you done any stuff like amputations before?”

“Yes.”

“You mind elaborating?”

“Right now? Yes.” _Because I don’t like that look in Maxwell’s eye._

Higgsbury was _killing_ him. Maxwell is pretty sure the scientist can hear his heart, especially with how closely they’re still sitting together.

“You can relax,” Wilson tells him with an arch of the eyebrow. So he _can_ hear it, after all. “I’m not about to carve you up. You're safe.” He blows smoke from the side of his mouth before adding under his breath, “f̵̨̧̨̠̟̘̠̦̹̣̳̊̾̑͗͠o̴̢͖͍̤͔̰͎̱͙͐̈̑̽͑̒̍͂̐͐̕͝r̴̨̰̦̜̠͍͂ͅ ̷̫̟̼͔̗̰͕̫͇̮̽̇̓̑͊̽̏͜n̶̢̲͉̣̗̑̈́̊ö̶̡͇͙̲͍̪̻̦̰̭̬͂̾͘͜ͅw̶̢̬̠̖͙̠͎͚̮̖̝̩̱̎͐̈́͌͋͌͑͆̑ͅͅ.”

Maxwell swallows hard, and not for the reason Higgsbury is likely thinking.

“Uh, Wilson?” Willow sounds surprisingly timid. “Why are you still talking like that?”

“Talking like what?”

“You’re sounding very. . .Maxwell, still.”

“Look, can we just. . .not, right now? I'm dead on my feet as it is. How's the water coming along, Warly?”

“Cooling off.”

“ _Parfait._ The sooner we can get this done and all go to bed, the better.”

“Also, not for nothing, Wilson, but should you really be putting any _more_ Shadow-tainted things in your mouth?”

Wilson chokes. So does Maxwell. Wickerbottom turns her head to stifle a laugh.

“Any _möre_?” Wigfrid gives Willow a quizzical look. “What was the first öne?”

“Okay, I don’t know how that Shadow got in me. Maybe I just inhaled too many Spores or something. I think that’s what Willow means.” He shoots her a warning glare. “ _Right?_ ”

“Uh, yeah! Yeah, that’s what I meant. Sorry.”

She had a point, though. Wilson flicks the cigar into the fire.

Maxwell’s Latin _really_ wasn’t going to cut it for this one. He tries French, instead. That one he at least knew fluently (and suspected Higgsbury did too, given his background and the way he interacted with the chef). He had lovely memories of visiting and occasionally performing at _Le Chat Noir_ in Montmatre as William Carter, prior to his emigration to the States. “《 How does she know about that, Higgsbury? 》”

“《 Don’t give me that look. If you hadn’t bashed my brains in, I wouldn’t have slipped up and described what your stupid claws tasted like while I was semi-conscious. 》”

Wilson stops a moment.

“《 Wait a minute. I kissed you. 》” He squints at Maxwell and stabs a finger into his chest accusingly. “《 I was so out of my head from those stupid petals you left lying everywhere that I forgot I kissed you. You're, like, half-Nightmare Fuel at this point. AND I KISSED YOU. Is _that_ where that Shadow thing—!? 》”

There’s a loud clatter as a Portable Crock Pot hits the ground. Both Maxwell and Wilson freeze.

Maxwell knew the history of every single person he had struck a Faustian bargain with and trapped in The Constant. So he _really_ had no excuse, especially after his reasoning regarding Higgsbury's fluency, for momentarily forgetting that Warly had studied the culinary arts in goddamn _Paris._

“S-Sorry, burnt my hand,” Warly mumbles. “W-What do you want me to do with the water, Wilson?”

“P-Pour it into two large bowls, if you’d be so kind. Uh, do you w-want me to take a look at your hand?”

“ _Ce n'est pas nécessaire._ I'll just put some Healing Salve on it. It's. . .it’s just a small burn. Surprised me.”

“A-Alright. Let me know if you change your mind.”

 _“I'm going to kill you,”_ Maxwell breathes through clenched teeth, so quietly his lips barely move.

“Not if I kill me first,” Wilson sighs. “You can have 545, if you want. I like odd numbers.”

Maxwell wishes he could stay angry, but everything hurt and he was still caked in blood and damn it all, he just wanted to sleep. Besides, Warly was good people, and he likely wouldn’t say anything. If anyone had to find out, he was glad it was him and not someone like the catty arsonist. He softens, just slightly, and mirrors Wilson’s sigh. “You _are_ an odd number, pal.”

Warly does as Wilson had instructed, then hands him a bar of soap (albeit while not meeting his or Maxwell's eyes). It wasn’t anything more than some animal fat Warly had rendered for him, combined with ash and a few herbs, but it got the job done. Wilson has only just finished scrubbing up by the time Webber finally returns with the silk. “Here you go, Mr. Wilson!”

“Thank you, you’ve been a very big help today,” Wilson tells him with a smile, and Webber beams, chattering happily. He's relieved his little. . .fit earlier hadn’t traumatized the poor child. He had suffered enough, perhaps more out of any of the other Survivors. He and Wendy both, really. “In fact, how would you like to be my science assistant?”

All eight of Webber’s eyes light up, and he bounces up and down in excitement. “Would I! We'd love to!”

“How can he be a ‘science assistant’ if you’re currently practicing medicine?”

“Medical science is still science, you killjoy. Now, Dr. Webber, if you would please stand right there by our big grumpy patient and hold that silk for me?”

“Of course, Dr. Wilson,” Webber responds in the most “grown-up” voice he can affect. Wilson chuckles, but “Doctor Wilson" makes him die a little inside.

“Excellent, thank you. Dr. Wendy, I need you to fetch that Thermal Stone for me, please.”

“You are including me in this farce as well?”

“I am. Thermal Stone, please.” When she’s out of earshot, he mutters under his breath, “ _Maxwell Junior, I swear to science._ ”

Maxwell mutters something under his breath as well, and Wilson doesn’t realize it’s an incantation until a hand, presumably of the Shadow variety, smacks him upside the back of the head. “Ow! What was that for?”

“ _Be nice._ ”

Wilson’s brows raise, and then he grins. “Wait, you actually care?”

The hand smacks him a second time. Then a third.

“Ow! Will you quit that!?” He grabs some silk from Webber and dunks it in the second bowl of hot water, the one he didn’t use for his hands. “And what was the third one for?”

“Swearing to science. Bizarre minced oaths make you sound childish. Just swear to God like a normal blaspheming adult.”

“Science _is_ my religion. But I'll be sure to swear to Maxwell next time, how about that?”

Maxwell smirks, and the Shadow hits him a fourth time. But it’s more of a playful swat, now. “No one likes a kiss-arse, pal.”

Wilson carefully straddles Maxwell’s lap and begins gently cleaning the blood from his face with the hot, damp silk. Spider Silk though it was, it felt. . .nice. Luxurious, even. He lets his eyes drift closed, and his tension starts to ebb away.

“I have the stone, Wilson.”

“Thank you, Dr. Wendy. Is it ice-cold now?”

“As the grave that awaits us all.”

“. . .thank you Dr. Wendy. Dr. Webber, please take the stone and wrap it in some of silk.”

“Yes, Dr. Wilson.”

“Dr. Wendy, please fetch me a Honey Poultice and tear it width-wise—” he demonstrates by drawing a rectangle in the air and indicating the direction with his fingers, “—into strips about yay-big.” He stipulates the proper size with his thumb and forefinger.

“I don’t think ‘yay-big' is a scientific unit of measurement.”

“Quiet, nameless patient. I need to splint this and something adhesive I can kinda _papier-mâché_ together might be the best I can do. I also may need to borrow Abigail. I need a quick hands-free light source that can move around on her own.”

“ _You’re going to use my dead niece as a medical light._ ”

“If she’ll permit me. Dr. Abigail, I need some help looking up your uncle’s big, dumb nose. Can I count on your invaluable assistance?”

Abigail spins in circles and makes some sort of faint sound he can’t quite identify. Wendy stares at her in disbelief.

“What did she say?”

“She says ‘that sounds really gross. Heck yes.’”

Wilson grins. “That’s my girl. To me, Dr. Abigail!”

Maxwell is beginning to wonder if _he’s_ the one that has been breathing in toxic mushroom spores this entire time instead of Higgsbury. Worse yet, the members of the camp not part of the crack medical team of child “doctors" are entirely too entertained by. . .whatever the hell this is. He was used to being center-stage, as it were, but this was. . .

“. . .I was god of this world once.”

“That's nice.” Wilson gently tips his chin up to look into his nasal passages.

“I used to kill people.”

“Mm-hmm. To the left a bit more, please, Dr. Abigail.”

“I murdered you on five hundred and forty-three different occasions.”

“Sure did. Oh, sorry, I meant _my_ left.”

“Definitely considering adding a few more notches to my proverbial belt.”

“I'm sure you are.”

“One time I followed a Deerclops around for an entire day hoping I could watch it gore you.”

“Did you have fun?”

“I did. I rather enjoyed inspecting your entrails afterward.”

“I'm sure they were very squishy and full of science.”

“Can both of you _please_ stop talking? This is like the creepiest fucking flirting I've ever heard in my life.”

“Please mind your language around the doctors, Ms. Willow.” Wilson frowns. “It’s not as bad a fracture as I thought. No deviated septum, mucosa looks fine, nasal airflow's normal. You just make lots of crunchy sounds.”

“How comforting.”

“No bruising around the eyes, no cerebrospinal fluid. All good signs.”

“Finally, your inability to do any sort of meaningful damage with your fists came in handy.”

“Pun intended?”

“. . .that was not supposed to be a pun, actually.”

“Unintentional puns are the best ones, in my purely scientific opinion.” Wilson licks his lips, thinking. “I'll have to set it before it starts to swell too much.”

“What do you mean, se— **G̴̯͔̬̗͙͓̪̮̻͖̲͚̈́̂̎̏͂̏̾̑̈́͝A̵̧̬̬̖̞̗͆̓̊Ặ̶̥̪̀̅́͌͑͊̌̏̋̃̑͑͠͝Ầ̷͚͈̬̦̜̍͠H̶̢̠̳̖͔̔̃̇̑̋͌̓̒͛̉͆̚͝H̸̢̬͔̣͓̲̟͚̩̘̤̳̃̏̓̾̚͜͝Ḣ̸̟̝̟̭̩̯̠H̷̛͇̖̫̹͉̩̺̣̝̍̆́͑̐͐̚H̸̖̗̦͍͆̈́͑̽͒̎!** ” Maxwell cups his hands protectively over his nose, his eyes watering from the pain. **“WARN ME, GODDAMMIT!”**

“If I told you I was going to pop the bone back, you would have tensed up.” He dampens another piece of silk and holds it up to his nose. “Blow.”

Maxwell makes an irritated grumble, but obeys. He shudders in revulsion when Wilson takes the wadded silk away and looks at it. “Must you _really_ inspect my mucus? For Christ's sake, Higgsbury.”

“For your information, yes, I do. I want to make sure you’re not leaking brain fluid everywhere.”

“That’s what dealing with you feels like most days. Like my brain is melting.”

“It sounds like I missed the setting of the bone.” Wendy has returned, strips of the poultice in her hands. “Drat.”

“Apologies, Dr. Wendy. Next time I'll make sure you’re present, I promise. Oooh, these strips are perfection, thank you! Excellent work!”

It was nigh impossible to get a read on Wendy with her inscrutable expression and flat affect. But Wilson swears he can see something stir behind those vacant eyes, and the ghost (heh) of a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

“And thank you, Dr. Abigail. I apologize for exploiting you for your lovely ectoplasmic glow.”

Wilson isn’t sure he'd ever seen a ghost blush before. He'd seen Abigail redden with anger and attack anything that touched her sister, but this was entirely new. Abigail whips behind Wendy as if to hide.

“I had no idea you were such a ladykiller, Higgsbu—I just walked into another damn pun, didn’t I.”

Wendy actually giggles this time. A sweet, dainty sound that melts the heart.

“I also wholeheartedly disapprove of this union, by the way.”

“Abby says ‘you’re not the boss of me, Uncle Max.’”

Wilson laughs, shaking his head, and begins to apply the strips of the poultice to Maxwell's nose. “Sorry, Abigail, but I'm a bit too old for you.”

Wilson checks in with Webber every now and again as he works to make sure he's doing okay. He was a bit worried about him with some of Maxwell's louder outbursts—particularly when Wilson popped his fractured bone back into place—but he seems to be enjoying watching all the goings-on.

“And done. Thermal Stone, Dr. Webber.”

“Yes, Dr. Wilson.” He drops the cold, silk-covered rock into the scientist’s waiting hand.

Wilson gingerly applies it to Maxwell’s face, and the magician visibly relaxes. “Better?”

“Much.” He takes the stone and holds it himself. “Thank you.”

Wilson halts in washing his hands. Has. . .has Maxwell ever thanked him before? “You’re. . .welcome? I mean, it was kinda my fault to start with.”

Maxwell shrugs. He looks too tired to care.

Wilson tosses the soiled silk into the fire and washes out the bowls. “Thank you for your assistance, Wendy, Webber, and Abigail. You were all a tremendous help. Now go to bed, it’s nearly dawn.”

Webber pounces on Wilson’s back and nuzzles his cheek. “Good night, Mr. Wilson!”

Wilson chuckles, ruffling the spider child's head fur. “Good night, Webber. Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite. Just eat ‘em.”

Webber bounds away, and to the surprise of both Wilson and Maxwell, Wendy approaches.

“Headed to bed?”

“Yes. But before I go, ah. . .” Wendy actually looks a little shy. “Abigail says she had fun in spite of. . .everything. Too much whimsy gives me indigestion, but. . .I am happy when Abby is happy. Thank you for including her.”

Wilson’s expression is soft. “Of course. Her current state doesn’t make her any less of a sweet little girl than you.” He tilts his head slightly. “I didn’t know her when she was alive, but based on my admittedly limited interactions with her, she seems like she might have been a bit of a hellion. A real tomboy.”

“I would say that’s fairly accurate, yes.”

“Heh. Troublemakers can always recognize other troublemakers. I was a bit of a rapscallion as a kiddo, too.”

“I can see that being the case.”

“Anyway, go get some rest. And thanks for playing along.”

Wendy hesitates, then stiffly, awkwardly, wraps her arms around his neck. Wilson doesn’t move. He simply sits, dumbfounded. “W-What’s this. . .?”

“Father was. . .also very kind. You remind me of him.”

Wilson doesn’t know what to say. He just sits there, unsure of what to do with his hands. He eventually settles on giving her upper back a tentative pat, instead.

He feels something briefly press against his cheek, so quickly and softly that he isn’t sure it had happened at all. At least, not until she gives Maxwell a peck on the cheek as well.

“Goodnight, Uncle. Goodnight, Wilson.”

Neither of the men can speak. Wilson gives her a tremulous smile and a small wave.

A hush falls over the camp. Each Survivor is either holding their chest or cupping their hands over their mouths.

“Wilson. . .?” Willow's voice is barely above a whisper, so quiet that the crackling fire nearly drowns her out. “Are you crying. . .?”

“It’s. . .” His breath catches as he bows his head, his shoulders trembling. “I-It's just M-Mon. . .Monsoon Sea. . .son.” He hides his face in his hands and tries to choke back a sob. “My hair. . .m-my hair's gonna. . .get all w-wet. . .”

Maxwell is silent beside him, but his hand hesitantly comes to rest on his shoulder.

As dawn breaks over The Constant, all Wilson can do is weep.


	5. The Principle of Two Weaknesses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I had any friends, this could take me to them.”
> 
> \--Wilson on an unimplemented friend-thing
> 
> □■□■□■□■
> 
> "Reminds me of my old nanny."
> 
> \--Wilson on Mumsy, _The Gorge_
> 
> □■□■□■□■
> 
> “I am in an environment much harsher than that to which I am accustomed. Everything here is trying to kill me, or eat me, or. . .worse. It’s almost as bad as graduate school!”
> 
> \-- _Wilson's Field Notes_
> 
> □■□■□■□■
> 
> " _Maman_ used to keep a journal, before her memory went."
> 
> \--Warly on the Codex Umbra, _Don’t Starve Together_
> 
> □■□■□■□■
> 
> “I'm so sorry, Charlie.”
> 
> \--Maxwell on the Codex Umbra, _Don’t Starve_ and _DST_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw you're so paranoid about pacing you write 40 goddamn pages
> 
> If you haven’t seen these yet:
> 
> Wendy’s backstory:  
> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=7ozRwX35fHE&feature=emb_title
> 
> Willow's backstory:  
> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=TKKXXKtFiQw
> 
> Warly’s backstory:  
> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=SH1VebvIOSk
> 
> □■□■□■□■
> 
> I come bearing smut, you fucking degenerates! I hope you like your porn with a side of COPIOUS EXPOSITION and a pinch of Wilson being a drama queen!
> 
> ❤u all kisses mwah xoxo
> 
> Misc. Notes:
> 
> \--One of my friends who was reading this got mad because I've been making game items proper nouns for emphasis in case you were wondering why the fuck Chest or Shovel is a proper noun. No, I'm not German, I just suck
> 
> \--I made a sociology joke because I went to school for it an eternity ago ohohoho I am so witty and clever
> 
> \--"dapperling" and “popinjay" are my new favorite synonyms for dandy/fop/noble
> 
> \--"fop" makes me think of “A Little Priest" from Sweeney Todd and now I can’t stop imagining Maxwell and Wilson singing a duet about making people into pies fuck me
> 
> \--I was also double-checking my French on various sites for idiomatic/colloquial expressions since it’s been a bit since I've spoken it; one of the sample phrases I got when I double-checked “man of science" was “mais c'est un homme de science, pas de sorcellerie" (“but he’s a man of science, not sorcery") and I was fucking dying
> 
> YOU HEAR THAT MAXWELL? WILSON EST UN HOMME DE SCIENCE, PAS DE SORCELLERIE

Darkness had begun to fall once again by the time Wilson wakes. He groans, unconsciously running a hand through his hair. _Great, now my circadian rhythm is going to be all out of whack._ He fumbles for his lantern and bathes his surroundings in dim lamplight.

Except he’s not in his tent.

He recognizes the cast-iron woodstove, smudged with soot. The definitely-not-a-real-human-skeleton-with-all-the-fleshy-bits-boiled-off-and-then-bleached-in-the-sun-that-was-an-exercise-in-rebuilding-a-body-to-better-understand-anatomy crucified to the wall near the round window. The window in question, whose panes had been blown out several experiments ago that he never bothered to replace. The typewriter on which he wrote his Master’s thesis, sitting on a rickety desk. The dusty shelves—the dust made it scholarly!—stuffed with old books, their cellulose and wood pulp and ink and binding breaking down to release the warm, intoxicating scent of vanillin’s brother, lingin. Just seeing it again made him long to crack one of the aged volumes open and absorb the sweet, sweet smell of knowledge and chemistry through his face.

At the center of it all, though, was the worn, high-backed, red-cushioned chair he had so often plopped himself down into after another failed foray into the unknown, just as he had right before his radio had begun to speak. . .

But sitting in that chair now, is—

“. . .Wendy?”

She appraises him coolly, with a languid, heavy-lidded look. In her lap she holds what started it all, his Voxola PR-76, stroking the radio as if it were a cat.

“He who has lain the Holy Scriptures behind the door and under the bench, refused to be called doctor of theology, but preferred to be styled doctor of medicine. . .”

Wilson blinks. Rubs his eyes, then blinks some more. “. . .What?”

_“Er enforscht, was die Welt im Innersten zusammenhält, studiert den Kosmos mit Teilchen, aus dem Universum und untersucht die Struktur von Materialien, vom Molekül bis zum Kristall. . .”_

“‘He who researches what holds the universe together at its innermost folds, studying the cosmos, with particles from the universe and examines the structure of matter, from molecule to crystal’ is a lot more accurate than ‘prefers to be styled doctor of medicine.’” He folds his arms and glances at the worn flooring, remembering. “Heh, my parents were so mad that I went to graduate school immediately after medical school after they paid so much in tuition. And that I only went for the _Medicinae Baccalaureus Baccalaureus Chirurgiae_ instead of becoming an _actual_ doctor _why am I telling you this._ ” He grabs a tuft of his hair and pulls, trying to ground himself, trying to focus, trying to wake up, trying to do _something._ “Better yet, why are you in my house? Better still, why am _I_ in my house?”

“You are here because this is your place of residence. I am here on behalf of the Black King, as Mephistopheles.”

“Yeah, right, Wendy, okay. If you’re Mephistopheles, then I'm Dr. Fa—oh.” Wilson holds his forehead. “Maxwell was right. How in the name of science did I manage to walk right by the obvious Faust allusion and into a brick wall. Or into a door with a big stupid face.” He claps his hand over his eyes. “No wonder Willow always says I'm the dumbest smart person she knows.”

Wendy—Mephistopheles—Wenphistopheles?—looks indifferent to his plight. “He who longs for more than earthly food and drink—”

“Ha, not in Maxwell’s world, kiddo.”

“—surrender your eternal soul to the Black King in exchange for unlimited knowledge—”

“Been there, did that, want a refund.”

“—and otherworldly pleasures.”

Wilson very nearly chokes to death on his own tongue.

“. . .we're going with the Goethe interpretation, I see. Also, please don’t say ‘otherworldly pleasures’ ever again. I already feel like enough of a creep knowing Abigail apparently has a crush on me.

“. . .wait, isn’t it supposed to be ‘worldly pleasures?’ Or did you mean ‘and other worldly pleasures?’ Because these are important distinctions to make.”

He’s interrupted by the sound of the radio clicking on, and a voice he knows all too well speaks through the muffled hiss of static. “Well done, my dear, that was very good.”

“Do not patronize me, Uncle.”

“Perish the thought.” Some sort of slick, oily black substance begins oozing from the radio's speaker, falling heavily to the floor below with an unsettling and disgusting series of plops. It was very reminiscent of the sound of organs hitting the frozen ground, like when a very angry Deerclops decides to turn one's insides into outsides. He instinctively brings a hand to his stomach, both to quell his nausea and to make sure everything's accounted for.

The pile of Nightmare Fuel—what else could it possibly be, really?—slides to the right of Wendystopheles, then writhes and churns and stretches into the shape of a man. “Now be a good girl and go get ready for bed.”

Much as Maxwell used to do, Wendy _poofs_ out of existence in a cloud of smoke.

“So. . .where’s the blood contract I have to sign? If we're going Goethe, here.”

Maxwell gives a low, rumbling chuckle, the kind Wilson can always feel in his own chest. “You already made a blood pact with me, pal. Don’t you remember?”

A searing pain slices across Wilson’s left palm, sudden and sharp, and he raises his hand to see the knife wound he'd made during the creation of Maxwell's Door, long since scarred over, reopened.

Maxwell steps forward, taking his wrist and turning his hand over as if to inspect for himself. Then he stoops, one arm bent behind his back, and a forked tongue unfurls from between parted lips.

“W-What are y-you— _ooooh_.” Maxwell's skin was always so cold, but his tongue was _hot_ (and possibly prehensile? Further study was needed). It laves over his stinging palm, sending a dizzying rush of blood to his face and turning his knees to jelly. Maxwell’s grip on his wrist was the only thing keeping him on his feet, but barely. “A-Are the ‘o-otherworldly pleasures’ starting a-already. . .?”

The longer Maxwell's tongue undulates against his hand, the more he feels like he has too much blood for his body. His head— _heads, both_ of the ones he’s been thinking with of late—pulse like a second (and third) heartbeat.

Maxwell finally pulls back, passing his tongue over his lips, lest he'd missed any of Wilson’s blood. _“Delectable,”_ he purrs, and the word shoots straight to Wilson’s groin, very nearly bringing him to his knees. “I gotta say, pal, I was skeptical when you said the palms were more sensitive than the soles, but just look at how hard you are already. I hope you're not attached to those buttons on your trousers.” He nibbles one of Wilson's fingers with a sly smile and a quirk of the brow. “Getting off on having your wounds licked. _Now_ who’s the degenerate.”

“Still you— _waugh!_ ” The world suddenly inverts, and Maxwell has him by the ankle. Probably for the best, because he doesn’t think his legs would have held him much longer.

“Though, on a related note, I _do_ believe I'm now experiencing some of that _scientific curiosity_ you’re always going on about.” Maxwell primly brushes off the sole in his grasp with the side of his glove, and Wilson panics.

“Wait! No! Don’t! That’s—!” Wilson’s eyes roll back as the tongue returns with a firm lick up his sole, and he has a sneaking suspicion Maxwell isn’t “scientifically curious” about his plantar reflex. “Ohhhh, _stop._ ”

“Really, pal? That sounded awfully like a ‘keep going' to me, but I admit my hearing isn’t what it used to be.”

“No, it’s weird, it’s gross, it’s—" His eyes roll again, this time accompanied by what is unmistakably a heavy moan.

_Terrible, beautiful things. It’s best not to fight it._

“‘—b-best nnnot to ffffight it. . .’”

“See? You learned something in your time here after all.” Wilson tries to crane his neck to look at him, but his vision blurs when Maxwell sucks one of his toes into his mouth. It’s _filthy,_ it’s _obscene,_ it looks so _wrong_ to see Maxwell suck on _anything,_ especially anything to do with his feet. “Now embrace your degeneracy.”

“It’s nnnot degennnerate, there's _nnngh_ a perfectly logical _mmm_ e-explANAAAtion a-as t-t-to whYYYYyy _unnhh_ cer-certain b-body parts a-aRRRRRe erogenous, _nnn_ —”

Maxwell mercifully pauses in his licking, awarding him a moment of reprieve. “And that would be?”

“. . .I forget, the science fell out of my brain when you turned me upside-down.”

“Well, allow me to refresh your memory, then.”

“Wait! Doonnn't—” Wilson’s eyes cross the second he feels the graze of sharp teeth.

“You’re giving me a lot of mixed messages here, pal.” He can feel Maxwell's breathy chuckle on his skin.

“It mmmakes me ffffeel like a creepy pervert when youuu—"

“Do what? This?” Wilson can feel the scrape of teeth once more, lightly biting the instep, the ball of his foot, the heel, the arch, his toes. All the oral attention being paid to his feet made him feel kind of slimy, but inexplicable neurotic hang-ups weren’t exactly uncharted territory for Wilson.

But hanging upside-down also gave him a rather up-close and personal view of Maxwell's slacks and how tight they’d become, so he at least felt somewhat vindicated. Especially since he’s close enough to see every little twitch of the straining column, fed by his own shameless moaning.

“You’re g-gonna, _nnngh_ , p-put my eye out if you’re not CAREFULLLLL—!”

Maxwell had removed his glove—Wilson can see in his mind's eye Maxwell biting the finger and pulling it off with his teeth, and _stars above_ the very idea was enough to set him aflame—and now rakes his claws over his foot instead.

“That’s quite a lot of moaning you’re doing,” Maxwell remarks, amused. “Given your fixation on it I assumed you'd be more ticklish, yourself.”

Oh, Wilson absolutely was. Maybe even more so than Maxwell. But he wasn’t about to volunteer _that_ little tidbit of information.

. . .but what did he mean, “fixation?” There was no “fixation.” He just. . .really enjoyed teasing Maxwell. It didn’t matter if it was making fun of his nose, or telling him magic didn’t exist, or sneaking up behind him to press a chunk of Ice to the back of his neck (though that one almost got him skewered on the business end of a Dark Sword).

The ones that involved tickling him just made him a little excited, that’s all. Wilson would deny it to his last, but Maxwell _did_ have a really nice body for an older gentleman. And if they could keep up their food stores and Warly could keep making his amazing dishes, Maxwell would start filling out more in no time. It would be really nice to feel more than bone and sinew when he touched him. (Not that Wilson was planning on touching him regularly, that would be silly.) And further, the man was dapper as all-get-out, with or without clothing. Sure, he was grumpy and aloof around the others, but when he was performing, usually for the kids or when he thought no one else was around, he just _oozed_ charisma. He was born for the stage, especially with that killer smile and that _darling_ little posh accent. How could a man of science _not_ get a little worked up in the face of all that charm?

Besides, _Maxwell_ was the one who got ridiculously hard while he was being tickled the other day, so it’s not like _Wilson_ was the abnormal one, here. And the last time Wilson checked, _he_ wasn’t the one who’d been brought to orgasm by a feather. “Fixation,” bah. What nonsense.

. . .why was he getting so defensive about this? Maybe the discomfort from all the blood rushing to his head was making him a little cranky.

“SorrYYYY to DISapPOINT you, _nnngh._ AlSO myyy, _mmm,_ head's GONNAAA explode iffff I keeeEEEEp hanging like THIIS.”

“Well, we can’t have _that_.”

Wilson is abruptly righted, so abruptly he almost faints from the surge of vertigo that follows. “Ooog. . .t-thanks. . .”

“Don’t thank me yet, pal.”

Wilson doesn’t know if it’s because the room is kind of dark or if he’s still a little disoriented, but he swears he sees something move across the floor. It’s when black tendrils rise up through the old planks to lash around his wrists and ankles that he realizes his eyes hadn’t been deceiving him after all.

“It _is_ strange to me, though,” Maxwell muses as the Shadow Hands restrain poor Wilson, keeping him suspended in the air. “Perhaps I'm just doing something incorrectly.”

Wilson cranes his neck to look at his erection, as if making sure they were seeing the same thing, and gives Maxwell a dubious look.

“Oh, no, I don’t mean _that._ ” The Shadow Hands roughly adjust his position as if he were some sort of pose-able doll, yanking his arms above his head and pulling one of his legs out perpendicular to his body. More Shadow Hands appear to support the unnatural position, but they still force Wilson to balance on one leg. “I mean _this,_ ” Maxwell continues, lightly raking his claws over the top of Wilson’s foot.

“Hnk!” Wilson jolts, his face flushing, and he bites his lip.

“Oh-ho, I see!” Maxwell’s lips spread into a vicious smile, exposing all those perfectly-pointed teeth. The baring of the teeth was never a good sign with Maxwell. “The bottoms are erogenous, but the tops are more sensitive. How intriguing! I don’t think I've ever seen anything like that before.”

Where _would_ he have seen anything like that? Wilson was convinced William Carter—who T̴͍͈̘̞̤͈̥͔̔͌͊̓̈́͂̈́̍̆̾͜͠h̶͖̮̏͂̈́̚̚ȩ̶̡̩̺̥̜̺͛̇͐̔̊̈́͊̊̔̐̕ÿ̶̧̛̯̘̹̼̱̘̫̣̣̫́̓̌͆̅̏̉̒̌̈ described as nervous, neurotic, repressed, wholly unremarkable—would have been too shy to take any lovers, male or female, much less. . . _experiment_ with them. Not that T̴͍͈̘̞̤͈̥͔̔͌͊̓̈́͂̈́̍̆̾͜͠h̶͖̮̏͂̈́̚̚ȩ̶̡̩̺̥̜̺͛̇͐̔̊̈́͊̊̔̐̕ÿ̶̧̛̯̘̹̼̱̘̫̣̣̫́̓̌͆̅̏̉̒̌̈ could be trusted, of course. He could imagine _Maxwell_ having his pick of the litter, but he was not a demonstrative man. Even prior to his reign, when he started becoming consumed by his own stage persona and his lust for fame and fortune, he seemed to view everyone as beneath him. Again, not that anything T̴͍͈̘̞̤͈̥͔̔͌͊̓̈́͂̈́̍̆̾͜͠h̶͖̮̏͂̈́̚̚ȩ̶̡̩̺̥̜̺͛̇͐̔̊̈́͊̊̔̐̕ÿ̶̧̛̯̘̹̼̱̘̫̣̣́̓̌͆̅̏̉̒̌̈ said could be trusted. But Wilson _knew_ Maxwell, he had freed him, survived with him, collaborated with him, died by his hands five hundred and forty-three times, and what T̴͍͈̘̞̤͈̥͔̔͌͊̓̈́͂̈́̍̆̾͜͠h̶͖̮̏͂̈́̚̚ȩ̶̡̩̺̥̜̺͛̇͐̔̊̈́͊̊̔̐̕ÿ̶̧̛̯̘̹̼̱̘̫̣̣̫́̓̌͆̅̏̉̒̌̈ said seemed to fit the bill. Besides, _actual_ torture seemed more Maxwell’s speed than all this teasing.

Well, until now.

“Oh, would you look at that. Looks like _you’re_ the one smiling and red in the face now.” Those smooth fingers, cool as jade and hard as glass, trace idle circles along the delicate, nerve-rich skin. “Something something turnabout, something something fair play.”

Oh. _That’s_ what this was about. The Black King's revenge.

“Are you _trembling?_ Trembling in fear before The Great Maxwell? Or is it something else?” The top of his foot is still tingling like mad, as if Maxwell had never stopped touching it. Wilson can hear the hollow click of his heeled shoes on the creaking floorboards as he circles behind him, and then those full, luscious lips brush his ear. “You can tell me,” he murmurs in that silky, bewitching voice he used almost exclusively for striking deals. It sounded so disarming, so _kindly_ , he was your friend on the radio and he would help you out of whatever pickle you found yourself in because you were _pals_ , right, pal?

Wilson knew that voice was a trap. Or rather, he knew that _now_. But damn him, it was _still_ so hard to resist. He had used that voice to calm him the previous night, despite the chokehold, despite having twisted around him like a pretzel to overpower him, despite threatening him with death if he resisted, despite calling him a dandy and a spoiled decadent child coasting through life on his family’s wealth before revealing this to the entire camp—in spite of everything, it had _worked_. It had been Dapper Gentlemen Calm-Down Time because Maxwell said so, and calm down he did.

“Why so quiet, little popinjay? Normally no one can get you to shut up.”

“‘Popinjay' loses all meaning coming from the strutting peacock personified.” Wilson had managed to regain some of his composure through pure indignation. Now he just had to hold on to it.

“What’s wrong with the peacock? It’s a creature that understands showmanship. A bird after my own heart.”

“First, they're ill-tempered, aggressive, and attack on a whim—you know, what nevermind. You're the perfect peacock.” Wilson snorts. “And second, _what_ heart.”

He did it. He almost let Maxwell bait him with that voice, but he resisted. Science beat magic, every time.

. . .Wait, how long had his shirt and waistcoat been unbuttoned?

“All this time we’ve spent together, Mr. Higgsbury, and you still haven’t figured out the most powerful tool in a magician's arsenal.” He brings those lips back to his ear and whispers, “ _misdirection._ ”

Wilson typically went out of his way to avoid profanity or otherwise crude language—he had his (totally self-imposed) reputation as a gentleman to uphold, plus he didn’t want to slip in front of the children—but it was just Maxwell here. “Sounds like a flowery way of saying ‘can’t bullshit a bullshitter’ to me.”

Maxwell gives another one of those low, rumbling chuckles, and Wilson _hated_ how he could feel it vibrate through his own ribcage. “You’re not wrong, scientist. You’re not wrong.”

Wilson flinches when one of Maxwell’s hands creeps up his abdomen. “Interesting, though. You have less growth than I thought, given your almost supernatural ability to grow ungodly amounts of facial hair.”

“My beards are _magnificent._ ” _Yes, stay nettled, Higgsbury. He can’t pull one over on you if you keep your defenses up._

“They make you look like a caveman, rather than the Gentleman Scientist you constantly tout yourself as.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Heh.” Maxwell seems to be considering something as he paws him up. “No, this isn’t right. Your hair grows in far too thick for this to be natural.”

“. . .Just because you know my family history doesn’t mean you know my genetics.”

“I only know your family history, dear boy, because you talk to radios when you’re lonely.”

“I liked you better as a radio. Less handsy.”

Maxwell with that maddening chuckle again, and all Wilson can think is _stop that._ But he isn’t sure if that’s directed toward the magician or the fluttering beneath his breastbone. “You’re one to talk, pal. How many times has it been that I've had to dissuade you from being so damn grabby?”

“‘Dissuade' is a funny way of saying ‘throttle.’”

Maxwell makes a dismissive noise. “Not important. What _I_ want to know is how someone so hirsute and with such thick, luscious locks manages to have so smooth a torso it beggars belief.”

Wilson actually blushes. Maxwell liked his hair? The same meticulous coiffure that was such a large point of pride for him, that the other Survivors only mercilessly made fun of him for? “Y-Yes, well, maybe it’s just magic.”

Maxwell laughs. No malice, no mockery, just amusement. “Magic, eh? Or perhaps it has something to do with that cluster of hives you left standing a ways away from the base.” Those smooth, glassy fingertips size him up, walking up his hairless, muscular stomach to the neatly-groomed swath of curls that adorn his upper chest. “I remember seeing them one day and thought, ‘why on earth would Higgsbury keep the hives here when he could easily destroy them and make more Bee Boxes for the camp?’ And then I realized, well. . .maybe he doesn’t want anyone to know he uses them for Beeswax.”

Click, click, click as Maxwell circles back around to face him. The way the color has drained from Higgsbury’s face tells him he’s hit the mark.

“You keep your arms and legs covered, and you make sure no one ever sees you shirtless. So tell me, do you heat the wax and do it that way? Or do you let it harden and scrape it off with the Razor you always carry around?”

Wilson opens his mouth, then closes it. Several times. Then he looks away.

“Removing body hair via waxing is very common among the upper class, I've been told.” Maxwell grins. “You little dandy. You foppish little dapperling.”

“I'm not—!” Wilson’s temper flares, and he tugs against the Shadow Hands still restraining him. “I'm not like that, okay? Not like _you._ I'm no preening peacock, I just. . .I just don’t like the way excess body hair feels. It collects sweat and sebum and dirt and it catches fire during experiments and it makes it harder to clean and dress wounds and—”

“And yet you never groom your beard during Winter.”

“Because my face is cold and I'm too busy trying not to freeze to death in your stupid world! Plus Beard Hair is actually useful for Meat Effigies, which we need, because of the aforementioned stupid world that wants to kill us dead! So if you don’t like my beard it’s your own damn fault!”

“You’re so easy to tease, pal, you know that?” Maxwell's voice sounds almost _fond._ “You can dish it out, but you can’t take it.” He sweeps a hand through Wilson’s thick mane of hair, lightly scratching his scalp with those claws. Wilson hated to admit it, but it felt _divine._ He can feel his grip on his anger slipping like tools from his hands during Monsoon Season.

“That’s it, just relax. There’s a good little _petit maître._ Did you know your eyes cross when certain areas are stimulated? It’s simply _precious._ ”

Damn it. Wilson tries to blink and clear his vision, but as long as Maxwell is running those claws through his hair, his eyes keep going out of focus.

“You’re getting hard again, too. When was the last time you were touched so intimately?”

“None of your business,” Wilson mumbles. He can’t even try to fight back anymore; he just slackens in the Shadow Hands' grasp.

Click, click, click. Maxwell circling him like a vulture once again, his claws never leaving his hair. “Tell me, Higgsbury. Do you _actually_ hate me? Just remember—” he gives Wilson’s hair a little warning tug, “—I don’t like liars.”

“You must really hate yourself, then,” Wilson retorts, but there’s no bite behind it. He sounds too drowsy to really care.

“Heh. Always so quick on your feet. Let’s try that one again, pal.” Maxwell is at his ear again, breaking that enchanting voice back out. “Do you. Hate me.”

“. . .No.” It was the truth. The only thing he hated was being forced to disclose it.

“Do you—” Maxwell can’t suppress another quiet chuckle, “— _really_ find my face ‘stupid?’”

“Of course not,” Wilson murmurs before he can stop himself.

“One might even say you find me attractive?”

“. . .One might.”

“I suppose I _am_ rather dapper.”

“. . .You are.”

“So amenable, little scientist.” Stars, that scalp-scratching was doing something to him. Between that and that charming, captivating voice that wound around his brain like a bolt of smooth silk, Maxwell had him right in the palm of his hand. Puppet Master, indeed.

“Tonic immobility,” Wilson murmurs through his apparent trance.

“Hmm? What’s this, now?”

“Tonic immobility. Paralysis state some animals enter when threatened by a predator. Also called animal hypnosis.” Wilson speaks slowly, as if his words were made of Taffy, and Maxwell was stretching them out in an attempt to pull them from his mouth. “Can disarm an alligator by flipping it on its back, extending its neck, stroking its belly. Induces hypnotic state. Tonic immobility.”

“Oh? How interesting.” Wilson can feel Maxwell tracing the curve of his ear with those lips that shouldn’t be as inhumanly soft and plush as they are, especially on a man. “I always learn so much from you.”

Wilson can feel his lips pull into a goofy smile at this. Why. Why was he smiling. Whatever part of his brain that hadn’t been reduced to mush tries to scream at him to stop, but to no avail.

“So, am I the predator in this scenario?”

“You’re the predator in _every_ scenario.”

Maxwell’s laugh is light. Wilson doesn’t think he's ever heard the magician laugh without some undercurrent of contempt or bitterness.

“You know, pal, I think I should let you in on a little secret.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “You were always my _favourite_ pawn.”

 _Maxwell’s favorite._ It shouldn’t make Wilson’s heart swell as much as it does. In fact, it should probably make him sick to his stomach. But Wilson couldn’t remember being _anyone’s_ favorite, pawn or otherwise. Until recently, he hadn’t even _had_ friends. The man on the radio had been the first person in a long time that he'd managed to actually form some semblance of an emotional connection with, even if it was more of a working relationship than anything else.

But he had told Maxwell of his distant family. His hatred of formal occasions. His loneliness. And Maxwell, to his credit, had listened. And had offered him a chance to become the great scientist Wilson knew he could be. He just had to do one little thing for him. . .

Waking up in The Constant, realizing Maxwell had deceived him—it hurt. It hurt more than he'd have ever imagined possible. That’s when he learned “pal" wasn’t a friend, it was ridicule.

It _hurt._

But he was Maxwell’s favorite. He had _always_ been Maxwell’s favorite.

And Maxwell, meanwhile, can’t believe that actually _worked._

But really, was there ever any doubt?

_You’re actually in pretty good shape for an old guy._

_Are you in pain? Where does it hurt?_

_I haven’t forgotten about you. I could never forget about you._

_You bet, Willow. I'll take good care of King Maxwell._

_—wanted to make a stew for Maxwell—_

_Aren’t you gonna ask what I'm doing?_

_I picked you some of those weird creepy flowers you like—_

_That’s what I love about you, Maxwell._

_—a delightfully debonair Black King—_

_But I'll be sure to swear to Maxwell next time, how about that?_

_You taste like smoke and mirrors._

He could joke about his five hundred deaths. He laughed off the Deerclops comment like getting gored by a monster he created was just a harmless prank between friends. Even after breaking his nose and very nearly slicing him open, he still jumped in front of him at the very last second to shield him from what would have been a fatal blow.

Higgsbury was clearly smitten. And maybe, just maybe, Maxwell was a little keen on him, too. His favourite pawn.

“Heh. Were you aroused when you were touching me the morning the Hound attack happened?”

“Yes,” Wilson answers dreamily.

“How unprofessional. You’d make a terrible doctor.”

“Thank you.”

“And are you ticklish as well?”

“Mmmhmm. . .”

“And it excites you, does it?”

“Yes. . .”

Wilson can feel Maxwell's warped smile spread against his ear.

_“Gotcha.”_

It takes several seconds for Wilson to process that he's just stumbled into another trap, and it's enough to jar him out of the spell he seemed to be under. “What? No! I meant no. Of course not. No to all of it.”

“What was that you were saying earlier, about trying to bullshit a bullshitter?”

“Damn it! Why do you always have to play these weird creepy mindgames with people, huh?” Higgsbury is struggling again, and sounding more than a little irritated. “You’ve figured out I start acting weird when I'm around all your creepy Shadow stuff too long and you use it to bait me! You—you're—you're such an _ass!_ A pompous, braying _jackass!_ That’s what you are! You hear me!? A—ah— _ahh~”_

Wilson didn’t know he could even make that sound, and it was somehow so much worse than all the wanton moans and muddled confessions Maxwell had been drawing out of him thus far. But he doesn’t think he’s ever had his nipples touched before.

“You wax around them, too,” Maxwell notes, teasing but not disparaging. He still sounds like he’s in a good mood despite Wilson’s outburst, probably buoyed by knowing they were even on the “weakness" front. He also has yet to drop ~the voice~. “That’s probably why they're so sensitive, hmm?”

Wilson makes more of those pleasant little sounds as Maxwell encircles the delicate tissue until they form stiff peaks under his fingers. Then they’re perfect for kneading and gentle pinching. The scientist eventually gives a small whine.

“Hm? What’s the matter, pet?”

 _Pet._ He liked the way that rolled off the devil’s forked tongue and into his ear. Something about it sounded so. . .natural. Perhaps because “pet" and variations thereof as a term of endearment was exclusive to England? At least, that’s the only place where Wilson had ever heard it. Or maybe it was just the next logical step up from “pal.”

“It hurts. My. . .” He swallows. “My g-genitals.”

That rumbling chuckle sounded sweeter than ever. “So hard you hurt? Poor thing. Let old Maxwell take care of that for you.”

The Shadow Hands make quick work of his clothing, but Wilson is so far gone he can’t even be embarrassed about being completely bollocks naked in front of his old nemesis. And when one of those smooth, glassy claws finally close around his aching erection, oh, he’s in heaven.

“Oh, stars, yes!” he gasps. The Shadow Hands reposition him slightly, splaying his limbs apart in a spread-eagle position for better access. And it seemed Maxwell was right—Higgsbury _did_ wax his arms and legs. Even his pubic hair was neatly groomed. Gentleman Scientist, indeed. Perhaps it made sense, given how particular he was about the hair on his head, but it tickled Maxwell all the same.

“Oh, yes, _ahh,_ that feels wonderful. . .”

_“Sire.”_

Wilson struggles to comprehend while his brain is swimming in oxytocin. “Buh?” he asks, rather intelligently.

“I am your King. You will address me as such.”

Was. . .was this some sort of joke? But then Maxwell removes his hand, dissatisfied with the lack of response. “Wait, no! Maxwell!”

“ _King_ Maxwell to you, knave.”

What in the name of science was he on about? He still maintained ~the voice~, still sounded as entertained as ever, but there was a clear shift in tone that wasn’t there before.

“ _King_ Maxwell,” Wilson finds himself saying before he can formulate an incredulous response or an insult, and he curses his immediate compliance, brought on by the weakness of his flesh. “P-Please touch me, sire.”

“That’s a good pet.” The hand returns, slicking Wilson up with his own arousal. “Look at you, leaking more than most pipes. How _ungentlemanly._ ”

Wilson’s face burns. He thinks he should probably warn Maxwell that there’s about to be more where that came from. “S-Sire, I can feel my. . .my seed rising. . .”

“So soon?” Wilson can almost _hear_ his eyes sparkling. “Oh, that won’t do. That won’t do at _all._ ”

“What did you expect!? You’ve been teasing me this whole time!”

“And I will continue to do so until I'm satisfied.”

_You've been an interesting plaything, but I've grown tired of this game._

This was probably the most fun Maxwell had had since taking the Throne. He certainly _sounded_ like he was enjoying himself. A little _too_ much, if the scientist was being honest.

“. . .Please, Maxw— _my liege, please_ don’t stop.”

“ _Don’t_ stop? All you’ve been doing up until now has been _begging_ me to stop.”

Wilson makes the most pitiful whine, like a kicked puppy.

“Oh, _honestly,_ Higgsbury, have a _little_ dignity.” But it’s not Maxwell’s hand that begins masturbating him again, but a Shadow's. Wilson would take it, though. He'd take anything at this point.

_“Oh, thank you, sire, my liege, you are so gracious in your magnanimity, I swear my eternal fealty to you—”_

Wilson can’t _believe_ the words pouring from his mouth, and for one heart-stopping moment, he fears Maxwell would think he’s being mocked.

“What did I tell you about being a kiss-arse?” Maxwell growls in his ear, but he sounds _most pleased._ That was a relief.

“I'm sorry, my— _eep!_ ”

Oh, _that’s_ why he wanted his hands free. The tips of those claws cycle up and down Wilson’s sides, from his hips to the smooth hallows under his arms. Because _of course_ he waxed there, too, Maxwell thinks with a smirk. Indulgent little coxcomb.

 _“Eee-hee-hee!”_ God, that shrill little boyish giggle just thawed the ice in Maxwell’s veins. “St-STOP that!”

“I thought you liked this?”

He can’t decide whether he loves or hates it, really. “S-Slow down! Too much!”

Surprisingly, Maxwell acquiesces. The points of his claws creep across Higgsbury’s shivering chest and stomach instead, and his giggles blend into moans. “Oh, sire, I'm getting close again, I— _EEEEEE!_ ”

The Shadow Hand stops again, and the vigorous tickling begins in earnest. Rapidly fluttering up and down his ribs, his arms, his stomach, his thighs. He wasn’t rough, he didn’t dig, he kept his touch light—but it was no less cruel.

“ _Hnngh_ heeheehee _why!?_ ” Wilson wails. “Thi-hi-his is _torture!_ _Please,_ Maxwell, _pleeheeheese_ —"

_And I will continue to do so until I'm satisfied._

Maxwell continues this inhumane cycle of teasing and denial until the scientist is sobbing actual tears. If Wilson was surprised by his own words before, he was gobsmacked by the things he was blubbering now—he'd let a Deerclops eviscerate him, he'd throw himself into a pack of Hounds, he'd let a Bearger flay the flesh from his bones, he'd walk straight into a Spider Queen's Den wearing nothing but Honey and a smile, he'd let Maxwell put cigars out in his eyes and use the sockets for ashtrays, he'd amputate his own leg and present the meat to Warly and carve Maxwell chess pieces from the bone, _he'd renounce science and give up experimenting forever if he could just have that sweet release!_

As Wilson hangs limply in his bonds, weeping pathetically, Maxwell has to take a moment to collect himself. Starting with picking his jaw up off the floor.

“. . .alright, pet. Alright. You have my permission.”

The Shadow Hand resumes, pumping him furiously, but so too does the much more enthusiastic tickling. “W-Wait, Ma-ha-hax-well, I c-can't—!”

“You can.”

“T-Too mmmuch! I-hi-t's too much, I ca-ha-ha-han't!”

“You can and you will.”

“Maxwell—!”

Wilson liked it better when the tickling was slow and sensual. It might still be possible to hit completion, but the speed at which those deft fingers were moving, and the fact that they refused to stay in one place, made it difficult to concentrate on pleasure.

_“Ten.”_

God, does Maxwell ever wish he could see Higgsbury’s expression.

“Wh-wh-wh—!?”

_“Nine.”_

“Maxw-w-w—!"

_“Eight.”_

“MA-HAXWELL!”

“ _Seven._ If you want release, you’ll do it by the time I've counted down.”

“Maxwell, PLEASE!”

“ _Six._ Clock's ticking, pet.”

“I c-can’t. . .”

_“Five.”_

“I CAN’T!”

_“Four.”_

“Stop!”

_“Three.”_

“S-STOP!”

_“Two.”_

“I—”

_“One.”_

His body collapses in on itself like a dying star as the force of his orgasm burns him inside and out. White-hot paroxysms of pleasure tear through him. He can feel his chest and diaphragm and lungs heaving out hoarse wails but he can’t hear anything but a high-frequency ringing in his ears. He knows he's in his house but he can’t see anything more than a void of brilliant, blinding white stretching as far as the eye can see.

It was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. A far cry from the joyless, rubbery spasms he’d become accustomed to as he'd spend himself into his own hand on nights of particularly frustrating experimentation.

It was like a nuclear fusion reaction on the surface of the sun. It consumed him until there was nothing left. And it was sublime.

The world slowly fades back in. Maxwell is in front of him again, wiping the tears and mucus and saliva from his face with a soft cloth. He’s petting his hair, cooing praise Wilson can't quite make out in that voice that warms him to his very core.

“Magnificent, little scientist. That was _very_ impressive. I also had no idea you were so. . .virile. Ah, youth.”

Wilson, still bleary-eyed and trembling with aftershocks, follows Maxwell’s gaze. And the sight makes him wish he actually had undergone nuclear fusion, because he would love nothing more than to vaporize on the spot.

He had ejaculated _everywhere._ It was splattered all over the floor in front of him. It probably looked like more than it actually was—and it looked like he'd repeatedly stomped on several tubes of baking soda-hydrogen peroxide paste dentifrice—but still.

“I guess you were a little pent up, huh, pal?”

Oh, back to “pal" again, it seemed. Wilson averts his eyes and tries to find a part of the floor _not_ covered in his semen. “You were teasing me a long time,” he grumbles.

“And you loved every second, didn’t you.”

Wilson hangs his head, mortified. Then, slowly, he nods.

“Good, good. Excellent.” The magician walks over to the worn red chair across from Wilson, which warps into what is clearly supposed to be the Nightmare Throne as soon as he takes a seat. He settles in, getting comfortable, and pulls his own erection from his trousers.

“Now. . .I hope you’re ready for the second round.”

Wilson blanches. “W-Wait! I'm—!”

The last thing Wilson sees before the Shadow Hands swarm him is that broad, twisted, malefic smile. “It’s best not to fight it.”

And then the room is filled with the crazed laughter of a scientist slowly being driven insane.

“WILSON!”

Wilson jumps up, still tangled in his blanket, and falls over on to the unforgiving ground. “What!? What’s going on!? Who died!?”

“Finally! I've been standing outside yelling at you for like five minutes!”

“Willow?” His alarm quickly turns to annoyance. “Did you set my workbench on fire again?”

“No, no, someone needs stitches! Get dressed and bring your Sewing Kit!”

“Right, okay!” Damn it, he was so discombobulated. What the hell was that dream? It had been so vivid; he could still feel the Shadow Hands on his body. . .

He notices with disgust that his undergarments are completely soaked through and sticky. Just how many not-quite-nocturnal emissions had he had while he was out? When he sees Maxwell, he’s going to re-break his nose.

Actually, scratch that. He _really_ didn’t want to see Maxwell. He really didn’t want to see _anybody_. He wanted to sneak off and wash up in the nearest Pond, then never think about this ever again.

He doesn’t have time to clean himself up, so he just tugs on a new pair of undergarments and his usual clothing and stumbles out of the tent with his needles and thread.

“Come on, Wilson, hurry!” Willow tugs insistently on his arm. “He needs emergency surgery!”

“Calm down! Who does!?”

Willow hauls him over to his workbench, where. . .a tattered, singed teddy bear lies in a heap of stuffing.

“. . .you woke me up. From a dead sleep. Screaming bloody murder. Just so I could fix Bernie.”

“He’s hurt, and you're the camp doctor!”

“I'm a people doctor, not a bear doc— _I'm not even a doctor!_ ”

“But Maxwell said—”

 _“Do not.”_ Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose and silences her with a raised hand. “Start with Maxwell. Before I've even had my tea.”

But his irritation wanes as the scientist in him takes over; he reluctantly drags himself over to the workbench, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Okay, let’s see here. . .”

He roots through one of his Chests, pulling out some Silk, Beefalo Wool, and some of his Beard Hair. Willow makes a face.

“Look, I don’t want to hear it. If it's good enough for Meat Effigies, it’s good enough for Bernie. I didn’t make the rules. Take it up with the magician.”

“You should have changed them while you were King.”

Wilson gives her the darkest, most violent glare she has ever seen. Willow takes a step back, hands raised defensively.

“W-Will you calm down? It was a joke.”

Wilson’s expression immediately softens. He looks much more like the skittish, meek man Willow had always known instead of the deranged monster he had been channeling last night. She internally sighs with relief.

“You’re right, I'm sorry. I guess I woke up on the wrong side of the bedroll.” He gives Willow the sunniest smile he can muster. “Just think of it this way—you'll always have a piece of me with you to keep you safe. That’s like two best friends for the price of one.”

Willow gives him a small smile back. “Heh, yeah, I guess so.”

_. . .But what if I need to be kept safe from **you,** Wilson? What did the Throne do to you?_

“I'll go get you some tea, okay?”

Wilson looks up. “Oh, you don’t have to. I'm starting to wake up now.”

“No, it’s the least I can do for dragging you out of bed on no sleep to fix a teddy bear.”

“Aww, no! Bernie’s your best friend! I was still just a little disoriented, sorry. I didn’t mean to be snippy.”

Bernie _was_ her best friend. Her _only_ friend, for the longest time. She’d had him since she was a child, living in the orphanage. He protected her from the Shadows, according to her.

. . .it was because Willow had grown up in an orphanage that Wilson had never mentioned his own family. Even though he didn’t really associate with them anymore—and certainly not now—it still made him feel guilty. Like he had directly contributed to her hardship because he'd been born into money. That he was part of a larger problem, even if he tried to dissociate himself from it as much as possible. Who could blame Willow for being suspicious of a “blueblood,” as she put it?

“Got your tea.” Willow hands him the cup and sits down next to him.

“Heh, thanks, Willow.” He takes a sip. “Much better. I'll have your patient all patched up in a jiff, just gotta fill him up with the new stuffing.” He pauses, rooting around in his pocket. “I think I still have some Mismatched Buttons I found the other day, if you want me to give him a new eye.”

“If you want, yeah.”

“It’s not any trouble or anything. I'm the fastest stitcher-upper around.”

“You _are_ really good at sewing. That’s why I wanted you to fix Bernie. You’re the only one I trust to do a good job.” Willow chuckles. “Heh, now your face is all red.”

Wilson goes back to his sewing in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. “. . .you'd really trust a blueblood, huh?”

Willow places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks softly.

“I was. . .ashamed. You’ve had such a hard life, and I, well. . .didn’t.”

“Just because you had a family doesn’t mean things were easy. Look at Wendy. She had both parents, a fancy house, lived by the ocean. . .and losing Abigail just destroyed her.”

“. . .I suppose.”

_Father was. . .also very kind._

“. . .I don’t know if I'd call what I had a ‘family,’ per se. My parents weren’t really. . .involved. I had a nanny, though. Wickerbottom reminds me a lot of her.”

“Oh, jeez, no wonder you looked so crushed when she scolded you yesterday.”

“That obvious, huh.” Wilson smooths his hair back, and Willow has to smother a laugh when it _sproings_ back into place. “Whenever there was a problem, my parents just threw money at it until it went away. But boarding school, tours of Europe, and sending me to America didn’t stop me from wanting to be a scientist, so they ironically started paying to keep me in the States. Can’t bring shame to the family if you’re not there to do it, right?” He scoffs bitterly, taking another sip of tea. “It wasn't a lot, but it was enough to afford a dilapidated old house in the middle of the woods where I could experiment to my heart’s content. And it was after the latest failed experiment that Maxwell contacted me.”

“Through your radio, right?”

“Yes. He promised me ‘secret knowledge’ in exchange for building a ‘dimensional portal’ for him.” Wilson sighs. “I was so caught up in wanting to invent something successful that, well. . .you know the rest.”

“I don’t know how much you remember before you passed out, but you kept saying all this weird stuff about ‘T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊’ and that T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ were promising you ‘knowledge.’ I don’t know what it was all about, but Maxwell looked scared shitless.”

“It's. . .hard to explain.” Wilson sets Bernie down and cups his chin in his hand. “T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ run the show, here. Maxwell says it’s his world, and _technically_ it is, he _did_ create most of it, but T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ were pulling the proverbial strings. Probably fed his ego, told him he was a great and powerful magician, stuff like that. T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ feed on your insecurities. That’s how T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ get in your head and make you do what T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ want.”

“‘Feed on your insecurities,’ huh? Is that why the doctor stuff bothers you so much? Because what you really love is science?”

“. . .it sounds silly when you say it out loud.”

“But. . .who _are_ T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ?”

_I don't know what T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ want. T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ. . .T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ just watch. Unless you get too close. . .then. . .well, there's a reason I stay so dapper._

“I don’t actually know. Maxwell doesn’t really, either. All I know is that T̶̢̪͕̩̼̪̄̍̎ͅh̷͍͖͇̟͔̼̑̈̈́͊̍͆̽̍̕͠͠ȇ̵̞͇̟̾̕y̵̡̫̠̞͕͇͚͋̆͒͆͛̾́͂̍̐̏͗̆̕͝'̸̳̙̜͖̜̓̎̅̄̋̾̾͝r̸͉̅̉̆̈́̐͌͝͠ė̷̡̝͔̗͖̗͓͐͐̍͛̅̎͝͝ related to Shadows and Nightmare Fuel. T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ select who gets kidnapped, and who is worthy of the Throne. I’m just speculating, but. . .T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ seem to go after people who're desperate for something. Desperate enough to make a deal with the Devil, so to speak. Probably because they’re easier to manipulate. All I can really say about T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊ is don’t make T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊ angry.”

“Why? What happens?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t want to find out. But if it’s anything like when Maxwell gets hopping mad, it can’t be anything good. But enough of all this depressing talk.” Wilson hands the teddy bear over. “Here’s Bernie, good as new. And now with two eye buttons.”

“Aww, yay! He looks great! Thanks, Wilson.” She gives him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You’re the best scientist ever.”

Wilson can’t even begin to articulate how much that means to him, how much it warms his heart, especially after he'd bared his soul to her. And especially _especially_ after last night’s fiasco. Maybe it was because they were both misfits in their own right, a neurotic mad scientist and an arsonist with a lifetime of trauma behind her. Two opposite ends of the spectrum from two completely different worlds, brought together by their loneliness and neglect. And a hack fraud magician.

“Willow,” he starts, tentatively rubbing her back as she keeps him locked in the hug, “I really am sorry about what I said—and did—to you last night. I know you said not to worry about it, but. . .”

“I know you didn’t mean it. You just repeated a thing Maxwell said—wait.” She pulls back, holding his shoulders. “You’ve been around Maxwell a lot these last couple days. And then you puked up a Shadow right after you took Charlie’s hit. Do you think Maxwell’s infecting you with his weird black magic stuff?”

“Uh, maybe? I dunno. . .nobody else has been ‘infected,’ so it might just be a fluke.”

“Yeah, but nobody else was on the Throne. Maybe you’re just more sensitive to it now.”

Wilson frowns. “I. . .see.”

“I don’t wanna say ‘stay away from Maxwell,’ but. . .I dunno either, Wilson. I really don’t.”

“Well, I mean. . .he’s one of us, now. We're going to have to all work together if we want to get back home—what? What are you suddenly grinning about?”

“It just occurred to me that Maxwell is like, made of Nightmare Fuel, right? And Shadows are made of Nightmare Fuel. . .and you puked up a Shadow. . .what else of Maxwell’s have you been sucking on, besides his fingers? Because you two were _awfully cozy_ last night after your big freakout.”

_Can both of you please stop talking? This is like the creepiest fucking flirting I've ever heard in my life._

“And _before_ your big freakout, if he wanted to get you a drink.”

_Mr. Warly, I think our dear scientist could use a drink to perk himself up._

Wilson is pretty sure his entire body is seconds from spontaneous combustion.

“He looked pretty content when you were in his lap cleaning all the blood off his face. Probably the calmest I've ever seen him. I think he likes you.” Willow grins, poking Wilson in the stomach. “And I think you like him, too.”

“I-I—that's—”

“And you sounded like you were having a good dream earlier. Like,” she grins slyly, nudging him in the ribs with her elbow, “a _really_ good dream.”

“Y-Yes, well, how do you know—”

“It was about Maxwell? Because you were moaning his name. _A lot._ ”

Wilson gets up from his workbench, finishes his tea, and wordlessly grabs a Shovel.

“So I guess I can’t really tell you to stay away in good faith when—Wilson, what are you digging?”

“My grave.”

“Aww, Wilson—!”

“Nope. It’s too late. I am burying myself alive and letting the earth reclaim me.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”

“I will become one with the soil. I will become sustenance for the beetles and the ants. I will become science itself.”

Willow laughs. “I'm just teasing you, you drama queen. Come on.” She takes the Shovel and tosses it aside, grabbing his hands instead. “You’ll feel better after some breakfast.”

“I'll feel better when my shame and I can both shuffle off this mortal coil.”

“Oh God, now you sound like Wendy. At least you’ll fit in with the family. Do you think she and Abigail will call you ‘Uncle Wilson?’”

“I think I'll be dead and won’t care because I'll be dead.”

Willow is starting to wonder why she’d even felt afraid of Wilson at all. Throne or no Throne, Maxwell or no Maxwell, he was still the same overdramatic, capricious, petulant scientist she knew and loved.

She just hopes he stays that way.

□■□■□■□■

“ _Bonjour_ Willow, Wilson! Are you both hungry?”

“You bet, Warly! Bacon and Eggs for both me and the scientist, please!”

“Coming right up!”

“Ha, Bacon and Eggs, ‘the perfect breakfast for a man of science.’ Right, Wil. . .son. . .?”

Willow turns to find that Wilson is no longer standing beside her, but curled up in a fetal position on the ground with the most listless expression on his face.

“Oh, boy. Are you _still_ upset?”

“I have ascended past upset and long only for the sweet embrace of death,” he answers flatly.

“You are just really channeling your inner Wendy today, huh? Do you just take on the personality of anyone who gives you a smooch?”

“Have you seen me set anything on fire yet? Oh, self-immolation, that’s a good idea.”

Warly returns with two plates heaped with food. “Alright, _mes amis,_ breakfast is served. Extra bacon for the _mademoiselle_ since she’s not a fan of—ah, Willow? What’s wrong with Wilson?”

“Let’s be honest, here, Warly—what _isn’t_ wrong with Wilson.”

Warly laughs, then catches himself and clears his throat. “Ahem. _Mademoiselle_ Willow, would you kindly enlighten me as to what has our _homme de science_ so down in the. . .dirt?”

“He’s sick. _Lovesick._ ”

“Traitor,” Wilson grumbles from the ground.

“Oh, hush. Everyone’s gonna find out anyway if you keep pitching your little hissyfit.”

“Uh-oh.” Warly lowers his voice. “This, ah, wouldn’t happen to be about the person you kissed the other day, would it?”

“ _No._ ” Willow turns back to Warly, mouth agape. “No way. Shut the hell up. _He did not._ Oh my God, Wilson, I was _joking_.”

_“Toi aussi, Warly, tu me trahis?”_

Warly laughs. “I'm not ‘betraying you too,’ Wilson. Willow clearly already suspected something.” He walks over and nudges the prone scientist with his foot. “Come on, stop moping on the ground, we'll talk about it over breakfast.”

_“Ce n'est pas une manière de traiter un homme de science.”_

“I wouldn’t be treating the man of science this way if he wasn’t acting like a big _bébé_.” He chuckles, pulling Wilson up by the collar and dusting him off. “Didn’t Maxwell say you were _un homme de haute naissance?_ ”

Wilson sighs. “I prefer _gentilhomme,_ but. . .yes. Contrary to popular belief, I am actually a man of high birth in addition to one of science.”

Warly grins, giving him a friendly thump on the back. “If it makes you feel any better, you really don’t act like it.”

□■□■□■□■

“So that’s how I got here, and all I really know about T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊, unfortunately. I've tried talking to Maxwell about T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊ as well, but you know how hard it is to get a straight answer from the guy. About anything, really.”

Warly looks thoughtful as he nurses his cup of tea. “You know, I haven’t been here very long, but as much as you complain about him— _et vice-versa_ —you and Maxwell seem to get along pretty well.”

“. . .We do?”

“. . .They do?”

Warly chuckles at both Wilson’s and Willow's befuddled expressions. “Okay, okay, just hear me out.

“The Hound attack the other day, right? You dove right in and fought alongside Maxwell until your Spear broke. And even then, you managed to hold them off until Maxwell could cast another spell. He then let you sew him up afterward, and Maxwell doesn’t let _anybody_ touch him. Because he knows he can trust you.”

Wilson looks at the ground.

“And when you fell into that episode yesterday, when you started talking about T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊ and knowledge and weren’t making a whole lot of sense, the first person you asked for was Maxwell. And the man was right there on the ground with you _tout de suite._ I don’t think I've ever seen him move so quickly. Not without magic, anyway. So I think on some level, you trust him, too.”

“Well, he was on the Throne. He knows about T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊ and what T̶̢̪͕̩̼̪̄̍̎ͅh̷͍͖͇̟͔̼̑̈̈́͊̍͆̽̍̕͠͠ȇ̵̞͇̟̾̕y̵̡̫̠̞͕͇͚͋̆͒͆͛̾́͂̍̐̏͗̆̕͝'̸̳̙̜͖̜̓̎̅̄̋̾̾͝r̸͉̅̉̆̈́̐͌͝͠ė̷̡̝͔̗͖̗͓͐͐̍͛̅̎͝͝ like. It makes sense that I'd ask for him.”

“I suppose. But there was something else I found interesting. He attacked you the other day after you had a fight or some such, right? But when you were whaling on him yesterday, he didn’t fight back. Not once. Why do you think that is?”

_. . .I suppose I deserve that._

“I. . .don’t know. I was going to say that maybe he felt guilty, but I don’t think Maxwell feels guilt. Or shame. Or remorse. Not that he’s incapable, exactly, but I think it would break him. Losing Charlie did a number on him already.”

Warly considers this, looking out over the campfire. His eyes are distant when he finally speaks again. “I never told you about _Maman_ , did I, Wilson.”

“Your mother? No, I. . .didn’t want to pry.”

“You saw some of it while on the Throne, I presume? Or heard it from T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊? T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ seem like a rather gossipy bunch.”

“Bits and pieces, but again. . .it seemed like a really sensitive issue, and it didn’t feel like my place. All I know is you left a promising career as a sous-chef in Paris for her.”

“That is correct, I did.” Warly absently stirs his tea. “ _Maman_ , she. . .she started losing her memory. It was little things at first, misplacing items, forgetting steps in an old recipe, leaving the oven on, things of that nature. Things you just attribute to getting older, you know? But then. . .she started forgetting who I was.”

Wilson averts his eyes, his face ashen. Willow looks about to cry.

“I started spending all my time cooking the meals she used to make for me as a child. _Anything_ to get her to remember me. And it worked, for a little while. But her memory kept getting worse. That was when I started hearing this voice on the radio, asking me what I would do to help her. I said I would do _anything_ , a-and—"

Warly’s story cuts off with a strangled sob, and he holds his face in his hands. “—I am sorry, I just—"

Wilson and Willow both pull the chef into a joined embrace. It was unusual for Wilson—wanton disregard for boundaries and personal space seemed to be something exclusive to his dealings with Maxwell—but he isn’t sure what else to do. He and Willow hold the weeping chef together until he calms enough to continue.

“ _Maman_ , she—she cannot take care of herself. I was all she had. _Wilson_ ,” Warly grabs him by the waistcoat, anguish in his voice, desperation in his eyes, “w-when you were on the Throne, could you see her? My dear _Maman_ , is she well? Is she. . .?”

_Alive?_

The word hangs in the air like Jerky to dry. Tense. Withered. Silent. Bereft of moisture, and of hope.

Wilson wants to lie. _Of course, Warly, she’s doing great, everything is fine and dandy, no worries._ Just as desperately as Warly is grasping him, stretching out the fabric of his waistcoat, white-knuckled and stricken, seconds from collapsing like a soufflé, so too does Wilson desperately want to soothe him—a man who had shown him nothing but kindness in spite of his _eccentricities_ —with sweet little lies.

But he wasn’t Maxwell.

“I could only see people trapped here, in this. . .‘dimension,’ I suppose. But I. . .I _did_ try asking T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊.”

“What did T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ say?”

“. . .T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ laughed at me.”

Warly deflates, now actually looking the part of a ruined soufflé. And the pain emanating from him really _is_ enough to make Wilson want to throw himself to the Void. “T-Thank you. . .for trying. E-Even though we hadn’t met yet, you still. . .” Warly rests his brow on Wilson’s chest, as if leaning on him for support. “ _Merci, mille fois._ ”

As grabby as he had been with Maxwell, Wilson was never so with the others (with the exception of Willow and Webber, the only people he felt comfortable enough with whom to physically express affection, however minor). But now everybody was just lining up to hug him today and he was starting to feel a bit overwhelmed.

And stars above, his earlier tantrum over Maxwell just seemed so _stupid_ now.

Well, it was stupid before, but now it felt _extra-stupid._

“. . .Okay, I think. . .” Warly sits up after a while, and Wilson hands him a clean handkerchief. “I think—thank you—I'm feeling a bit better, now. Oh, no thank you, Willow, I don’t need to hold Bernie. Thank you both for listening.”

“Of course.”

“No prob.”

“And I apologize for grabbing you like that, Wilson, that was rather undignified. I, ah, didn’t get snot all over your waistcoat, did I?”

“I can honestly say it’s seen worse things around here. And it can join all of Maxwell’s nose gunk from yesterday. I'll start collecting samples from everyone else in camp, make it a Petri party. A plethora of phlegm. A multitude of mucus.”

Both Wilson and Willow’s tension eases when Warly bursts into a fit of genuine laughter. “ _Mon ami,_ that is _disgusting_.”

“Oh, hey, speaking of disgusting.” Willow jumps up to where Wilson is sitting, looping her arms around his neck from behind and hanging on to his back. “So what do Maxwell’s kisses taste like? Are they gross? Does he taste like cigars?”

And now Warly is in tears yet again. “ _M-Mon dieu,_ Willow, _please_ , I c-can’t breathe—!”

“Is that why you stole his cigar last night? You wanted a little taste of him to calm your nerves?”

“W-Willow, _stop!”_ Warly is doubled over in his seat, sobbing with laughter and nearly falling off the log he’s perched on. _“I-I'm begging you!”_

“Yes, Willow. Stop.” Wilson mutters through gritted teeth.

“Oh, don’t be like that. It cheered Warly up, didn’t it?”

Wilson heaves an irritated and much put-upon sigh.

“Oh man, that was a bona-fide ‘I'm surrounded by idiots' Maxwell sigh right there. Maybe he _is_ rubbing off on you.” She pokes Wilson repeatedly in the cheek for emphasis. “But not as much as you wanna rub off on him. Ehh? _Ehhhhhh?_ ”

“Hoo, boy!” Warly wipes his eyes. “Goodness, I really needed that. But Willow, stop torturing the man. The poor scientist looks like he’s about to reach his boiling point.”

“Aww, but I didn’t even get to tell you about the _sexy_ dream he was having about him when I went to wake him up—”

“W̶̙̹̝͚͓̮͖̦̋̕i̴̧̧͈͖̰̯̳͈̬̱͔̟̋̏͒̃͊̾͛̉͆̕̕͝͝l̷̨̡̟̻̟̠̼̩̣̹͎͔̠̓̂̉̏̃̎́̓͛͋̾͋̚ͅl̵͖͓̲̲͍͉̥͖̣̞̗̊̎̐̏͛̒̅̈́͐͂̕͠͝͠o̶͖̫̬̝͖̠͔̺̓͌̈̀̅̑̌̚͝w̵̢̛̼̮͈̲͚̃̄̑͒̔̄͛̃͘ͅͅ.”

Both Willow and Warly freeze.

Wilson’s scowl is no different than usual, but he is nearly purple with humiliation and suppressed anger. Warly’s joke about boiling points was probably not too wide of the mark.

“ _P̵̖̝̮͉͚̖͍̩̭͆̄͗̈̀̏͗̚ͅĺ̷̡̛̤̟͍̼̓̌̐͒͂̈́͋̊͑̚͝e̸̢̤̭̩̣͓̺͕̫͎̩̳͒͊͂̐͌̍̈̃͜ͅa̷̯͉͎͑̍̃̈́̾̈́̓̈̉̅͆ͅs̶̛̟͈͓̼̥̉̌̎̈́̃́̅͠e̵͖̜͎͛̇̚̚ͅ._ ”

And just like that, the warmth and mirth that they'd all been feeling mere moments ago withers and dies, leaving nothing but an icy sense of foreboding and the harsh reality of their situation.

Nothing good ever lasted in The Constant.

□■□■□■□■

“Ah, Wilson, there you are. I should have known you’d be tinkering away at your workbench.”

 _Tinkering?_ What was he, a child? This was _science_ , and science was _serious business_. Wilson tries not to bristle. “Good day, Ms. Wickerbottom. May I help you?”

“Yes, in fact. I do hope you will forgive the short notice, but I would like you to move your tent. Per Mr. Maxwell, we should be getting some new arrivals relatively soon. Given that he could see everyone trapped here during his reign, and given how in tune he is with the Shadows, I am inclined to believe him. So we're going to do a little shuffling around.”

“Oh.”

“He had also mentioned something about an uptick in activity among T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊. That T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ tend to get agitated when something in The Constant begins undergoing some sort of change, like others traveling from one dimension to another. He was cryptic about it, as per usual, but again, I am inclined to believe him given his. . .experience in such matters.”

“. . .I see.”

“And, well. . .” Wickerbottom hesitates. “After the events of last night, it would seem T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ are indeed trying to sow more discord, if T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ decided to be brazen enough to try and manipulate you directly, which seems fairly unprecedented.”

Wilson is silent. He is positive he knows what she’s going to suggest next.

_You know how Maxwell always has some sort of weird stuff on him? Evil Flowers, Nightmare Fuel, the Codex?_

_Uh, yeah, that’s why we made him move his tent far away from everyone else's._

“Given that you seem to be susceptible to T̶̖̪̠͔͔̜̜̟̹͈̲̯̰͔̆͊ͅh̸͕͈̟͙̰̳̜͔̺̜͈̙̺͛̔̈́͆͌͐̌͐̀̔̊͊͘͝ę̴̛͕̭̗̭̦̻̟̺̗̘̝̯͆̑͛ͅĭ̶̩̱̣͚͉̱̮̳̯͓̘̩̊͋̀̆̓̍͠͝r̵͓̮̭̺̱̳̱̣̈́̊͒̄̾̃̉͛̋̾ influence, it would probably behoove you to stay closest to the person with the most experience with T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊.”

“Is that so? Because you were awfully worried about us interacting not one day ago.”

_It isn’t my intention to pry into your personal life, my boy, but I am concerned about these rapidly-escalating dust-ups between you and Mr. Carter._

“And wasn’t the reason Maxwell was moved to the other end of camp because of his constant dabbling in dark magic? So his Shadow nonsense didn’t start affecting the other Survivors? Because, if that is indeed the case, pairing him up with someone ‘susceptible to the influence of T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊’ sounds like a _really_ bad idea.”

“Wilson.” Wickerbottom gives him a stern look over her spectacles. “You and I both know you are going to have to interact with Maxwell regardless, even if I try to forbid you from doing so, which is ridiculous for a number of reasons. You’re both grown men and I cannot stop you from beating the tar out of each other should you start locking horns like Volt Goats vying for dominance. The only thing that’s changing is that you both can just now do it farther away from the others.”

_The king is, by all measures, a liability to everyone on the board._

“So you want to keep the two liabilities together. And if they manage to snap and kill each other, then the problem solves itself.”

“Wilson, you are acting like I'm banishing you from the camp altogether.”

“You may as well be!”

“You are being completely ridiculous. No one is being banished, no one is being punished, no one is being labeled a liability. Despite your previous run-ins with each other, Maxwell did nothing to harm you while you were in your. . .emotionally-compromised state last night, and you seemed to be getting along better after the possession had passed. I don’t want to tempt fate and call it ‘progress,’ but I am cautiously optimistic that this ‘move’ will do you both some good.”

“So it doesn’t matter if we murder each other or if we become bestest-ever-pals, so long as no one else gets caught in the crossfire.”

“Ideally, I'd prefer the latter. Honestly, Wilson, I don’t know why you’re so upset over this. I thought you’d be happy with a little extra space for experimentation. And now you won’t have to walk as far to assist Maxwell with his Latin.”

“It seems I hypothesized correctly that you knew it, too.” Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose. He felt like he'd been doing that a lot, lately. “My point of contention isn’t being closer to Maxwell. It’s being treated like a villain.”

“No one is—”

“ _Please_. I guess everyone has had time to digest what happened last night, because even Willow and Warly have been antsy around me today. And now you’re here, telling me I need to give everyone a wider berth. How _else_ am I supposed to interpret this?”

“Is _that_ what is bothering you?”

“ _Yes!_ All this morning it’s been ‘what was the Throne like,’ ‘how did it affect you,’ ‘what did T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ say to you,’ ‘how long were you the King?’ Stars, it’s enough to drive anyone crazy! Everyone’s been treating me like. . .treating me like. . .”

“Maxwell?”

Wilson falls silent once more.

“It must be lonely at the top. And while Wendy and Abigail are slowly warming up to him— _everyone_ seems to be—at the end of the day, you’re the one who has interacted with him the most. I daresay you know him better than anyone here, barring our new sovereign. I think he would benefit from having an actual friend, though I use that term loosely, nearby.

“I was also thinking about what I said yesterday, about being concerned about you two getting in scraps with each other. But you also constantly bicker with Willow, while you clearly have a great affection for each other that is readily apparent to everyone. It made me realize. . .maybe that’s just how you and Maxwell show affection.”

“. . .by trying to murder each other?”

“Interpersonal relationships are complex. Combined with the devastating effect this world has on the psyche. . .is it really that far outside of the realm of possibility? Stranger things have happened here, surely.”

“I'm no psychologist, but that seems. . .very unhealthy.”

“And yet, you seemed rather amused when Maxwell recounted sending a Deerclops after you. Maybe that’s just. . .normal for him. Normal for you. Normal for two former Kings, and normal for The Constant. I think that’s when it occurred to me that I really had no right to be meddling in either of your affairs, because you two are clearly operating on a level not even _I_ can begin to understand.” Wickerbottom ponders this. “I don’t think it is necessarily good or bad. It just. . .is.”

“‘Reality is like that, sometimes.’”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, uh. . .” Wilson stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I was just thinking about something Maxwell said once.”

“Heh. At any rate, humor a nosy old biddy, won’t you?”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to do anymore ‘meddling in our affairs.’”

“Oh, just give it a try. Think of it as—”

“ _Please_ don’t say ‘a science experiment.’”

“. . .a sociological experiment?”

“Soft science is still science.” Wilson frowns, tapping his chin pensively. “. . .or _is_ it?”

Wickerbottom chuckles and shakes her head. “Not to add to your moving load, but this is for you.” She hands him a roughly-bound volume.

“Is this. . .a book on Latin?”

“So you may check your work. I doubt Maxwell will let me lay eyes on the Codex Umbra.”

“You didn’t write this all in one night, did you?”

“Goodness, no! I was already writing this. I just finished it up this afternoon.”

Wilson gives her a small smile. “Thank you. This will be very helpful. I'm sure Maxwell will appreciate it, too.”

“I don’t know if you and Maxwell are still on the outs, but be sure to _kiss_ and make up before dinner, will you?”

“. . .Excuse me?”

But Wickerbottom is already walking away. “A knowledge of Latin makes it much easier to understand the Romance languages. See you at dinner.”

What was the old librarian on about? “Romance” like love? Or “Romance” like evolved from Latin? It had to be the latter. But where did _that_ come from? He didn’t see what Romance languages like Romanian or Spanish or Italian had anything to do with—

“Romance languages,” Wilson mutters to himself, staring exasperatedly into space. “Like. . .French. _Like damn_ _French._

_Where the hell did I leave my Shovel.”_

□■□■□■□■

Wilson is transporting the last of his various and sundry items to his tent's new location when he, predictably, runs into the very person he had hoped to avoid today.

“Err. . .greetings, Higgsbury.”

“ _Decent_ day to you, Maxwell.”

“Heh. Everyone else gets wished a _good_ day but me, eh.”

Wilson ignores him and drags one of several Chests into his tent.

“Would you. . .like a hand?”

“I guess.”

Two Shadow Hands rise from the ground in front of Wilson to clap politely.

“Hardy-har-har, Maxwell, you’re _hilarious._ ”

“Well, _I_ thought it was a good joke.” The Shadow Hands slither away to the depths from whence they came. “Where do you want your workbench?”

Wilson rushes out of the tent. “Be careful with that, it’s heav—! Oh.”

Several Shadow Puppets are carrying the worktable. Maxwell looks up from the Codex and raises a quizzical eyebrow.

“. . .by that wall is fine, thank you.”

It's only now that he’s near Maxwell that he realizes how sticky and uncomfortable his crotch feels. He really should have snuck off to wash up in the Pond hours ago.

“How’s the nose?”

“Much less swollen now, thank you. I can’t believe it never occurred to me to put a Thermal Stone in the Ice Box to use in lieu of a hunk of Ice.”

“. . .why didn’t you fight back?”

Maxwell looks up again, momentarily surprised.

“I figured you’d tire yourself out eventually. And as you said, it wasn’t a bad break.”

“I guess, but the threat of vivisection?”

It must be a trick of the light, the setting sun, because for one fleeting moment, Wilson is sure Maxwell is blushing. “I imagine we're _both_ interested in seeing how shriveled and black my heart is.”

Wilson scoffs.

“. . .but if you’d prefer an honest answer, I suppose I was just stunned. And. . .a bit curious.”

“‘. . .curious?’”

“I told you before, didn’t I? Making it to the Throne isn’t enough. Ultimately T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ choose who becomes the next King.”

_You've been an interesting plaything, but I've grown tired of this game. Or maybe T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ’ve grown tired of me._

_Heh. Took T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊ long enough._

“When T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ allowed you to usurp me, I supposed that T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ just wanted some fresh blood on the Throne. To keep the game interesting. But T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ seem to have taken a genuine liking to you.”

The thought makes Wilson’s stomach twist.

“. . .to me? Why?”

“In my opinion? To see how far they can push a naïve, idealistic, and relatively harmless idiot before he breaks. And to see what happens when he does.”

“. . .so you wanted to see if I had the stones to carve you up like a Gobbler.”

“You could say that.”

“And you were willing to bet your life on it?”

“Wasn't it you who reminded me the word ‘vivisection’ has roots in the Latin _vivus_? Even as far gone as you were, you’re much too competent in surgical butchery to let me die from _that._ ”

“You could have easily died from the shock—wait, what?” Wilson can’t help but grin a little in spite of himself. “That sounded an _awful_ lot like a compliment. A backhanded Maxwell compliment, but a compliment nonetheless.”

Maxwell was _definitely_ blushing, now. “Err, yes, well.” He quickly turns away to dismiss his Puppets, which crumble into small heaps of Fuel. “It’s getting late. If you’re finished, let’s adjourn to the main firepit.” Under his breath, he adds, “I'd rather not chance another encounter with Charlie.”

Wilson is glad Maxwell can’t see him wince.

□■□■□■□■

“Well, hey! The fancy-pants crew decided to show up! I was wonderin' why it felt so _proper_ in here all a-sudden.”

Maxwell chuckles, though likely more at Wilson's obvious discomfort than Woodie’s greeting.

“Y-Yeah, good evening to you, too.” Wilson automatically goes to take his place by

 _W̶̙̹̝͚͓̮͖̦̋̕i̴̧̧͈͖̰̯̳͈̬̱͔̟̋̏͒̃͊̾͛̉͆̕̕͝͝l̷̨̡̟̻̟̠̼̩̣̹͎͔̠̓̂̉̏̃̎́̓͛͋̾͋̚ͅl̵͖͓̲̲͍͉̥͖̣̞̗̊̎̐̏͛̒̅̈́͐͂̕͠͝͠o̶͖̫̬̝͖̠͔̺̓͌̈̀̅̑̌̚͝w̵̢̛̼̮͈̲͚̃̄̑͒̔̄͛̃͘ͅͅ_.

and stops short. “Oh, uh.”

But to his surprise, Willow beams up at him. “What’s the word, Redbird?” She scoots over to make room and pats the place on the log beside her. “Come take a load off, you look peaked.”

“I wonder whose fault that is,” he grumbles, but he can’t deny that he’s relieved. Water under the bridge, where it belonged. He settles next to her and leans against her shoulder.

“Not that I mind you invading my personal space, but you’re not the most touchy-feely guy. You’re not sick, are you? Because you really _are_ looking harried, Canary.”

“Tiiiiiired. I can barely hold myself up. And are we just going down the list of birds and rhymes?”

“You’re the doc, Peagawk. You tell me.”

Wilson closes his eyes. “Not a doctor. Plus I think ‘Peagawk' is better suited for Maxwell than me.”

“I rather like ‘popinjay' for you. Brash, pretentious, and won’t stop squawking.”

 _Popinjay._ The word tickles something in the back of Wilson’s brain. _Why am I getting the strangest sense of déja vu?_

“Webber, close your eyes, please.”

“Oh, um. . .okay, Mr. Wilson.”

His own eyes still closed, Wilson raises his hand in Maxwell’s direction, palm facing himself, and makes a backwards V with his middle and index finger before jabbing them upwards.

“I am unfamiliar with that gesture, friend Wilsön, but it did nöt löök very pölite.”

“I believe it’s a _slightly_ more gentlemanly way of sayin' ‘up yours,’ but only just.”

“Up his what?”

“Nothing, Webber. You can open your eyes now.”

“I must say, Higgsbury, I am absolutely appalled. I had no idea you were capable of such vulgarity.” But the amusement in his voice is plain. “Girls,” he presumably turns to Wendy and Abigail, “be sure not to follow this reprobate’s example.”

“. . .I see the move is already going well.”

“Aww, relax, Ms. Wickerbottom,” Willow pipes up. “They're both smiling, aren’t they?”

“Are right, tiny torchlady, but. . .is creeping Wolfgang.”

“I think we're _all_ a little creeped out by those two, big guy.”

Despite Wilson’s initial hesitancy, the other Survivors seem to have put the previous day’s events out of their mind. They chatter amongst themselves, Maxwell included, until dinner is ready.

Wilson doesn’t realize he’s nodded off until Warly gives his shoulder a gentle shake. “Wilson, _mon ami, réveille-toi._ It's dinnertime. And you’re drooling on poor _Mademoiselle_ Willow's sleeve.”

“ _Je veux dormir encore cinq minutes,_ ” he mumbles.

“ _Pourquoi on parle français,_ eh? Did I miss somethin'?”

That woke Wilson up. In fact, now everyone is staring at Woodie.

“What? I'm not as good as Warly or Wilson or Maxwell, but I know a little bit. Canadian, remember?”

“Uh, don’t take this the wrong way, Woodie,” Wilson sits up, rubbing his eyes, “but I could barely understand what you said.”

“That’s because Canadian French is barely French,” Maxwell remarks curtly from behind the Codex Umbra.

“Well, not all of us got to learn the fancy Parisian stuff like you two snobs. C'mon, Warly, back me up, here.”

“Apologies, my fine bearded fellow, but I too studied in Paris. I suppose that makes me a touch snobbish as well.”

“Hosers, the lot of you.”

Well, at least that was _one_ francophone Survivor who didn’t know about the kiss. Wilson accepts his plate and digs in. And as was seemingly customary, each Survivor voices their approval.

“Thanks, Warly, it’s amazing, as usual!”

“Fööd fit för the göds!”

“Tasty-making man is best!”

“We don’t think we can ever eat normal food again! Can you stay forever, Mr. Warly?”

Warly looks a little embarrassed under all the praise being heaped upon him, but Wilson catches his smile falter just a hair at Webber’s comment. He simply pats the spiderchild on the head.

 _Maman_ , _she—she cannot take care of herself. I was all she had._

Maxwell seems to catch this, too. And Wilson swears he can see the briefest flicker of something cross the magician’s eyes.

_Shame._

It wasn’t guilt; it wasn’t remorse. But it was _something._

“I can do the dishes tonight.”

Everyone stops dead, most mid-chew.

“. . .are you sure, Maxwell?”

“Professional chefs shouldn’t have to do dishes, as far as I'm concerned. You've paid your dues.” Maxwell waves a hand dismissively. “And with magic, it shouldn’t take long at all.”

“I can help, too. It’s only fair.”

Warly looks shell-shocked. “ _Toi aussi,_ Wilson? You can barely stay awake right now as it is!”

Wilson shrugs. “It’ll be faster with two people. And someone’s gotta make sure Maxwell doesn’t accidentally summon some sort of hellbeast.”

“And I, in turn, will ensure that a certain semi-conscious butterfingers doesn’t break all your good plates.”

“Science and magic, teaming up. Even if it’s just to tackle chores.” Willow shakes her head. “Now I've officially seen everything.”

“. . .you know, I was thinking about that the other day.”

The Survivors all turn to look at Wendy.

“The purpose of both magic and science is to unlock the mysteries of the universe, is it not? I daresay science could even be considered a more evolved form of magic. Err, I mean no offense, Uncle.” Wendy looks slightly sheepish. “Though perhaps I should have said science is a more _quantifiable_ form of magic. Whatever one's opinion on the matter, magic undeniably served as a springboard for the development of modern science. That much is certain. So I would say the two are inexorably linked.”

Wendy looks to the Florid Postern near the entrance of the camp. “I do believe I technically beat Wilson here to The Constant, albeit a slightly different iteration of it. Or a different _dimension_ of it, shall we say. But Wilson came here through the Door, or as a result of its creation. The Door he and Uncle Maxwell built together. The culmination of science and magic to create a working portal to another world. I know Uncle likes to tease Wilson about not being a very good scientist, while Wilson in turn likes to call him a fraud of a magician, but it takes two men with a high level of skill in their respective disciplines to be able to pull something like that off. And while communicating remotely over a radio, no less. Not only that, but Wilson and Uncle Maxwell created a working dimensional portal together not once, but _twice._ Which is how the rest of us got here, as you know. Though I recall Wilson was upset that the Queen destroyed the original and replaced it with one more suited to her tastes.” She nods to the Postern. “Further, could one not call alchemy the marriage of science and magic? I know Uncle keeps a copy of the Periodic Table of the Elements in his tent for when he wants to delve into his alchemical studies. And Wilson, I would not call constructing Life-Giving Amulets and Meat Effigies a wholly scientific practice.

“So. . .yes. I would say science and magic have been teaming up here for quite a while. As Wilson was the first to be transported here to this particular dimension of The Constant in which we currently reside, and Uncle Maxwell joined him not terribly long afterward, I would even say that the joining of science and magic predates the rest of our arrivals. And I would take it a step further to conclude that they’re not as different as Wilson and Uncle would like to think.”

There is not a single jaw around the campfire that hasn’t dropped. The crude metal fork that had been in Wilson’s mouth clatters on to the empty plate in his lap, and the Codex Umbra falls right from Maxwell’s slackened grip to the ground with a soft _thump_.

A slow clap starts beside Wilson. Then, gradually, the rest of the camp joins in. Wendy timidly rises to her feet and gives a bashful curtsy. “Oh, um, thank you.”

When the applause dies down, everyone looks to Wilson and Maxwell, who remain frozen in place.

“. . .Higgsbury.”

“. . .Yes?”

“. . .Catch.”

Maxwell tosses him something light and cylindrical. Wilson inspects it.

“I figured you might need one, too.”

“Sure you’re not a fortune-teller? Because you read my mind.” Wilson places the cigar between his lips. “Got a light, Willow?”

“You know it.” Willow pulls out her lighter. “But aren’t you the one who’s always saying ‘science says it’s bad for my health?’”

Wilson looks a little. . .unhinged as he anxiously putts on his cigar. “This _world_ is bad for my health. And science won’t kill me. Science _can’t_ kill me. I _am_ science. I _AM_ SCIENCE.”

“Alright, alright, you’re science! Take it easy!”

“Maxwell. Dishes?”

“Dishes.” Maxwell collects them and follows Wilson out, though he pauses momentarily in front of Willow and stoops down. “If I may trouble you further, Ms. Willow.”

“You got it, boss.” She lights Maxwell’s cigar as well.

“Much obliged.”

Wickerbottom watches them leave, shaking her head. “I sincerely hope Mr. Higgsbury doesn’t plan on making that a habit.”

“ _Je suis d'accord avec vous._ I hope it doesn’t set a poor example for the little ones. Wilson is usually so much better about that.”

Woodie pats Webber on the head. “Whatever you see Wilson and Maxwell do, make sure you do the opposite. Okay, little buddy?”

“Oh, go easy on him.” Willow snickers. “The man just had his entire world crumble before his eyes. At the hands of a ten-year-old.”

“I am become Death, destroyer of worlds. Also, I'm twelve. I think.”

“Yeah, time's weird here, isn’t it.” Willow walks over to Wendy, palm extended. “Good job on making Wilson and Maxwell have a nervous breakdown, though, that was hilarious.”

Wendy gives Willow a puzzled look.

“Come on, girlie, gimme some skin!”

“. . .What?”

Abigail floats over and whispers something to her sister.

“I am to slap her hand, Abby? I'm. . .confused.”

Abigail whispers something else.

“Abby says that this gesture is prevalent among certain demographics and subcultures as a sort of underground sign of solidarity. Is that. . .correct?”

“. . .yes, Wendy. It’s called a ‘low five.’”

“Oh. Low five, then.” Wendy swats Willow's hand away.

“Ehh, close enough.”

“I have becöme sö knöwledgable regarding a variety öf hand gestures this day! Praise be to Mímir for blessing me with such wisdöm fröm mine allies!” Wigfrid tugs on both Woodie’s and Wolfgang’s arms. “Wöödsman blessed by Yggdrassil and sön öf Magni! We must perförm the löw five sö as tö strengthen öur friendship!”

“Yes! Wolfgang would love!”

“Take it easy there, gal! Yer gonna yank my shoulder oat of joint!”

Warly sits to the other side of Willow, shaking his head. “It’s quite nice to see everyone so. . .lively.”

“Yeah, they all seem to be having fun.” Willow chuckles. “I feel like we don’t actually get to do that a lot.”

They watch the scene play out before them, everyone laughing and joking with each other, before Willow rests a hand on Warly’s arm. “You hanging in there okay?”

“Oh! Yes, yes, I'm fine.” He smiles and pats her hand. “Thank you for asking.”

“If there’s anything Wilson or me can do for you. . .you'll ask us, right?”

Warly chuckles. “I do not know how pleased Wilson will be that you’re volunteering his services without his knowledge, but I appreciate the sentiment. You will be the first two I'll call. I promise.”

“Good. Though speaking of that nerd, what are he and the old man doing over there? They’re not getting _frisky_ , are they?”

Warly laughs. “You are just _terrible_ today! No, they’re just washing dishes in silence while smoking like chimneys. It seems that what the young _mademoiselle_ said still has them both rather shaken.”

“Ha! Wendy’s great. She really knows how to go right for the jugular. Must be genetic.”

“The more I watch her interact with Maxwell, the more I seem to notice some sort of. . .resemblance between them. It’s uncanny.”

“Yeah, you missed it. Wilson called her ‘Maxwell Junior’ last night and the geezer cracked him one upside the head.”

“Ha, that sounds about right.” He looks over to where Maxwell and Wilson are drying and stacking plates. “I thought it might be my imagination, but they really do seem to be acting just a smidge friendlier to one another.”

“Yeah, I don’t think ol’ Max was expecting that scrawny dork to knock him flat on his bony ass. It was pretty scary to see Wilson act like that, but I was kinda rooting for him, too.”

“It feels silly to say aloud, but I wonder if Maxwell respects Wilson a bit more now. At least enough to offer him one of his cigars unprompted.” Warly lowers his voice and leans a little closer to Willow. “Was Wilson. . . _actually_ dreaming about him, by the by?”

Willow giggles mischievously. “Oh, Warly, buddy, you would not _believe_ the number of times I heard him moan Maxwell’s name.”

“Are you sure he wasn’t having a nightmare?”

“Ohhhh no, _mon ami._ Trust me, it sounded like a _very good_ dream.”

“That’s. . .” Warly is ginger-red, now, and he can’t seem decide if he wants to commit to either nervous fidgeting or hiding his face. “My goodness. I can barely fathom such a thing.”

“Don’t think about it too much. It’s like with the Shadows. It'll start driving you insane.”

“I feel guilty enough gossiping behind their backs as it is, but now I am curious as to how Maxwell feels. Can he even _feel_ love? Or anything more. . .lascivious, for that matter?”

“I dunno. But I really wanna find out. Even though the idea of Gramps wanting to jump Wilson’s bones makes me wanna hurl.”

Warly holds his face in his hand in what appears to be exasperation, but closer examination reveals he’s trying not to laugh. “ _Mon dieu,_ Willow.”

“Oh, hey!” Willow perks up as Wilson and Maxwell meander back to the campfire. “Dapper Gentlemen Calm-Down Time must be over, with the return of the _magician_ and _logician_ from their _mission_ in the _kitchen_.”

Wilson and Maxwell both blink at her, then at each other.

“. . .that was quite clever, actually.”

“Please, for the love of all that is both magical _and_ scientific, _do not_ encourage her.”

“Shut up, Wilson, no one asked you. And thank you, Maxwell, I spent twenty minutes thinking that one up.”

“Say, Ms. Willow.” Maxwell takes a pull of his cigar. “If you decided to dabble in special effects, would you be a _pyrotechnician_?”

Willow grins. “Put on a magic show, I'll be your _stage technician._ ”

Wilson holds his head in his hands. “I hate you both so much right now.”

“I'm sure she’s sorry, Higgsbury. Full of _contrition_.”

“I'd like to join,” Warly chimes in. “Have I your _permission_?”

“I've died,” Wilson moans. “This is the only logical explanation. I've died and gone to Rhyming Hell.”

“So now you reside in _perdition_?” Wendy asks innocently.

Maxwell laughs, an actual, genuine laugh. And Willow can’t help but notice Wilson peering through his fingers at him.

“I think Wilson’s cracking in this war of _attrition_ ,” she quips. “But that’s just my _suspicion_.”

“Keep it up and you’ll need a _mortician_ ,” Wilson grumbles.

“Seems our _homme de science_ is joining of his own _volition_.”

“You know,” it’s Wickerbottom’s turn, now, “their differences in height are quite dramatic when they stand in _juxtaposition_.”

“Forget the smoke,” Wilson flicks the remains of his cigar in the fire, “I need a drink.”

“For _imbibition_?”

Wilson sits back down on the log beside Willow and scowls.

“Why are you so grumpy? Terrible wordplay is right up your alley.”

“My _intuition_ ,” Maxwell states as he takes his seat between Wendy and Wickerbottom, “says our resident _physician_ is not in the best _condition_.”

“So he’s tired and cranky. Got it.”

“ _Again_ ,” Wilson snaps, “need I remind a certain _someone_ that she wouldn’t stop screeching outside my tent at o'dark-thirty—after none of us had slept, mind you—until the _resident physician_ got up to perform ‘emergency surgery’ on her teddy bear?”

“Yes, and you did a wonderful job.” Willow ‘walks' Bernie over to Wilson and affects a high-pitched voice. “‘Thank you, Wilson, you are the greatest scientist in the whole wide universe.’” Willow then repeatedly smushes Bernie into his cheek. “‘Mwah mwah mwah mwah.’”

“Oh, enough already.” Wilson swats her away, but he now looks slightly less insulted.

Warly stands. “I'm going to put a kettle on, if anyone would like some tea?”

The other Survivors raise their hands, and Warly fills a large enough kettle accordingly.

Willow affectionately tousles Wilson’s hair. “You gonna be okay, grumpy-butt?”

“Hey, don’t mess up my—” But his protests die on his lips the second she starts massaging his scalp. “—oh. That’s. . .oh. Yes, I'll be. . .fine.”

“Heehee. Your eyes are crossing. That’s _adorable_.”

“Oh, hush.” He lets his head sink to his chest and relaxes.

“Oh, jeez. I never knew Willow was like some sorta snake charmer, but for scientists. You’ve been holdin' oat on us, gal.”

“You’re going to make him fall back asleep, Willow,” Maxwell chuckles. “Though I remember hearing something to the effect that certain animals have this response in which flipping them over or caressing a certain area will put them in a trance-like state. Tonic immobility, I believe it was called.”

“Sounds science-y. Hey, nerd, tell us about it.”

“Paralysis state,” Wilson murmurs drowsily, “threatened by predator. . .animal hypnosis. Can disarm alligators. . .”

Woodie laughs. “Yer not gonna be gettin' much explanation oat of him as long as ya keep doin' that, eh?”

_Tonic immobility._

_A paralysis state some animals enter when threatened by a predator._

_Tonic immobility._

. . .How did Maxwell know about that?

_How interesting. I always learn so much from you._

Suddenly Wilson is wide awake.

_Am I the predator in this scenario?_

“Wilson, are you okay? You suddenly look like you’ve seen a ghost. Uh, no offense, Abigail.”

Wilson looks up, and ironically into the dead eyes of an ectoplasmic apparition.

He then responds as any battle-hardened wilderness survivalist scientist would in the face of something that could not possibly exist.

With the shrillest shriek anyone had ever heard from him. Before falling backwards off the log.

“Oh no, you spooked him! But holy crap, that was the funniest, girliest scream ever! Ghostly low five, Abby!”

Wilson sits up just in time to see Abigail swirl around Willow’s outstretched hand. “Hell yeah, girlie, that’s what I'm talking about!”

It’s actually Warly who helps him to his feet, though the chef is doing his damnedest not to laugh. “Are you alright? You didn’t smack your head too hard, did you?”

“No, I just. . .no. Oh, thanks.” Wilson accepts the tea, as well as the hand up.

“Abby says she’s sorry she frightened you. She was just curious to see if your eyes actually crossed like Willow said.”

“Heh, see for yourself, Abbs.” Wilson isn’t seated for more than several seconds before Willow is massaging his scalp again. His vision hazes almost immediately, and Abigail makes the same tinny, otherworldly giggle she made last night.

“W-Will you cut that out!?” Wilson bats Willow’s hand away and sullenly nurses his tea.

Wendy giggles, herself. “She says you look very cute. And she wishes you could be her boyfriend.”

Abigail angrily turns on her sister, her ghostly brow furrowed as she tries to jostle her.

“Okay, okay! She didn’t say that last part.” She gives her sister a silly grin. “But you were thinking it, Abby, don’t lie.”

“Hah! Look at his face!” Willow is cracking up. “He’s red as a tomato!”

“Abigail,” Wilson starts, rubbing his face, “you realize I am at least _twenty years_ older than you, right? I'm. . .flattered, I, uh, think, but you’re _really_ making me feel like a creepy old man. And most importantly, you are a _literal child._ ”

“Not to mention that I still object to this union, if for nothing else than on the grounds that Higgsbury is also a halfwit. And before you back-sass me, dear Abigail, as your next of kin acting _in loco parentis,_ I am _absolutely_ the boss of you.”

“ _Also_ also,” Woodie adds, “I believe you ‘offend him as a scientist,’ what with bein' a ghost and all.”

“Abigail doesn’t offend me. She’s a very sweet young lady, just like her sist— _yow!_ ” Wilson reels back, holding his hands over his nose. “ _C-Cold!_ ”

“Aww! She gave you a little smooch on the nose!” Willow laughs. “Man, what a charmer! Have you been taking dapper lessons from Maxwell?”

“Is dinner the new ‘Dogpile on the Scientist’ hour? Because I'm _really_ beginning to think it’s Dogpile on the Scientist Hour.”

“Maybe you should stop making it so easy for everyone then, Higgsbury.”

“ _You_ shut your face before I shut it for you.”

Maxwell grins at him over his tea with hooded eyes. _Bedroom eyes_ pops up unbidden in Wilson’s head, before he can even banish the thought. “Yes, try that one a second time, pal. See what happens.”

Willow snickers. “I also hate to be the bearer of bad news, Abbs, but I have it on good authority that Wilson here has his eye on a different Carter.”

Everyone watches in amazement as Maxwell spits out his tea.

Then Woodie is the first to break the stunned silence that follows.

“. . .well, now. That wasn’t very dapper at all.”

Maxwell closes his eyes, stands, and drops through the dark portal that opens up beneath him without another word.

“. . .holy shit, this night has been _amazing._ ”

_“Ms. Willow.”_

“Yeah, yeah, Grams, I know. Language.”

Webber hesitantly pipes up. “. . .what happened to Mr. Maxwell?”

“His greatest magic trick of all,” Willow snickers. “He made himself disappear.”

“Um. . .Mr. Wilson? Are you okay?”

Wilson is staring up at the night sky. Then he stands, takes several clumps of Grass out of one of the communal Chests, and begins weaving it into a length of Rope.

“. . .Friend Wilsön, is that a nööse you’re making?”

“Yes, Wigfrid. Yes it is.”

“. . .Ah, I suppose smoking was not hastening Death quickly enough. How tragic. I sympathize.”

“Oh, hey.” Willow looks over at the empty spot where Maxwell had been sitting. “He was in such a hurry he left the Codex.” Willow sucks in a deep breath. “HEY OLD MAN! COME GET YOUR STUPID BOOK BEFORE I BURN IT!”

Maxwell reappears almost immediately and viciously snatches the Codex. As he does so, a leaf of paper flutters out.

“Oh, something fell—”

 **“I̶̘͈͍͛̃̊ ̷̭̘̍ͅĥ̷̛͜a̵̡̛̞̜̕v̴̡̀̉e̷͖͊́ ̴̢͗͝e̷̮̣̮͆y̷̲͋͑̒ę̴͉̝̒s̵̡̽ͅ,̴͔̯͚̓̌̿ ̷̨͚͛͂̑y̵͍͂̇̕ơ̷̲̂͘u̶̙̪͛̽ͅ ̴͓̏͂͘m̵̞͊ö̶͓́u̷̳̅̑̉t̸̠̗͕̑h̷̹̖̑̀ͅy̶̖͙̽ ̸̰̹́̾̈́ẗ̴͉͍́͒̈́r̶͉̔̈́ͅo̵͔͗ļ̴̛̺͔͐ḷ̴͔͜͝ò̷̫̜̀p̶̘̔̌.”** Maxwell snatches the paper from the ground with just as much fervor as his tome. He holds it by the firelight to inspect it. “‘ _I missed you last night, but my aim is improving.’_ ” Maxwell immediately turns on Willow. “Is this your idea of a **_f̸̡̢͍̀̾̏́ų̸̩̺̜͝c̸̹̥̭̑ͅk̵͕̂͂̄͗į̵̅͌̑͝n̴̦̱̮͆g̸͎̘̱͑̕_** joke, firebug?”

“Maxwell—!"

“D̴̡̐̉̍ö̵̬́͝ ̵̰̯̬̙̔́͝n̴̘̤̣̋͂͘ȯ̴̙̲̙ͅt̷͕̺̎. Start with me, Wickerbottom. **_D̴̡̐̉̍ö̵̬́͝ ̵̰̯̬̙̔́͝n̴̘̤̣̋͂͘ȯ̴̙̲̙ͅt̷͕̺̎._** ” He starts to advance on Willow. “You’re just _chock-full_ of jokes tonight, aren’t you, you psychotic little—"

“That’s _**ę̷̓͌̓n̴̨̬̙͍͑̅͘͝o̵̯͚̅͜ü̴̳̫͌͘g̶̫̖͑̀͂̕h̷̢̢͉͛** ,_ Maxwell.”

Wilson is standing between him and Willow, arms outstretched, blocking her with his body. The noose, absurdly enough, still hangs loosely around his neck.

“I know her handwriting. Give it here.”

Maxwell glares at him, but eventually relents.

“It’s not hers. She didn’t write this.”

“Of course I didn’t! I'm not—!”

Wilson raises his hand to silence her, though his body is still angled toward Maxwell. “There’s more, though.”

He raises the paper to his face and continues reading. “‘ _Your hubris. . .it was always your weakness. You haven't escaped the pull of the Throne. You or your pet. . .scientist?_ ’” Wilson squints. “What on earth _is_ this? Why am _I_ in this?”

“No, it cannot _possibly_ say that.” Maxwell rips the note from his hand. “If I find out you and your firestarter friend are in on this—”

“Why would I put _myself_ in there? Why would I joke about the Throne when I know how much it destroys someone!? Use your damn head, Maxwell! Read it yourself if you don’t believe me!”

A pause as he reads. “. . .I'll be damned. It _does_ say that.”

“See!?”

_“‘This is all your fault. . .M-Maxy. Enjoy your peace while it lasts. This season will not be merciful._

_XO,_

_Queen C-Charlie.’”_

Not a soul in the camp so much as breathes.

“Pffft.”

Maxwell clasps a hand over his face, giggling like a madman, Charlie’s note crumpled in his gloved fist. _“Pfffahahaha!”_

“. . .Maxwell?”

“ _Heeheehee!_ Oh, good Lord. I cannot believe this. I absolutely canNOT believe this.”

He doubles over, hands seizing Wilson’s shoulders, head resting on the scientist’s chest. Positively _cackling._

_“Do you know what this means, Higgsbury? She didn’t try to kill me because she forgot who I was. **She tried to kill me because she remembered!** ”_

Maxwell thumps his fist against Wilson’s shoulder as if this was the most hilarious thing in the world. _“Good thing my **pet scientist** was so quick on the draw, eh? Oh, you really **are** my **absolute** **favourite** pawn._

_“What’s that opening called again? The Wayward Queen Attack? Thought she could check me in four moves, but **nope!** I could kiss you, I really could. Hahahaha! HAHAHAHAHA!_

**“Ḩ̵̢̨̱̠̼̟̣̺̭̣̠̮̩̰̥̋̔̈̀̃̇̈́͐̆̽̚͘Ā̷̡̲̖̹̺͉̤͔̯͇͔͔͕̤̜̩̭̹̏̂̽̇̐͗̂̀̎͗̑̀̋̂̀͒̚̕̕͝H̴̡̟̫̩̦̖̺̬͙̮̯͐͠Ä̵͖͍̩̲̭̯̪̺̗̲͇̩̝̱̜̳́͗͋͋̀̾͛̄̒̂̈́̀̿̾̂̅͛͘̕̕͝͝H̸͎̩͚͆̊̇͆̃͑̑̽̌͗̾̑̕͝A̷͚̝̺̱͙̘̫͖͖̝̯͈̱͉̲̲̲̘̜̲͈̱̔̓͛̂̈̌̈͊̿͑̕̚͜H̷̛̗̖͕͈͖͛͋̈́̑̄͑͆͊̚͘͠ͅͅÁ̶̛̛̜̦̝͇̩͓̰̬̼̰͕̤͉͉́̅̒̔̌̉̊̋̚͘H̴̢̢̨͖̤͓͓̻͇̖̝͇̮̑̉̐̉̓̓̋͆̎̆̈́̈́̌͑̌̆̚̚͜͝Ą̴̯̬̰̩̟͉̫̩̭̣͙̟̰͓̦͇̝͂̂̑̎͐̋̐̆͆̽͊̉͐̎̓̍͆̽̚͠H̴̛̛͙͙̩̬͍̗͖̦̮̗̙̤̯̩̟͋̊̏̑̆̋͒͌̑̈̍̆̃̀̿̕͜͜͠A̸̢̨̯̱̱̭͕̭̼͈̪̝̜̖͕̠͕̳̿͂̑̿̋͛͌̎̎̉̚͝H̶̢̢̡̛̛̛̺͕̯͓̘͎̞̦͕̯̙̆̈́̓̆̆̄̓͑̾͗͑̈̌͒̓͒̀͘͝Ā̸̤̖̩̘̬̟̄͗͒̅̉͌͂͆͜ͅ—!”**

Maxwell tips his head back, and his insane, gibbering laughter is abruptly cut off by a quick, sharp chop adjacent to the ~~Adam’s apple~~ laryngeal prominence. It takes only a second for Maxwell to pass out, slumping against the man who had struck him.

“The vagus nerve measures blood pressure of the arteries in the neck, namely the carotid artery," he explains to the Survivors, though no one had asked. "A firm strike there tricks the body into thinking blood pressure is dangerously high, so the brain tries to lower it. The sudden drop in blood pressure should then knock you right out, like so. Sorry, Maxwell, but it’s Dapper Gentlemen Calm-Down Time again.”

He hoists the unconscious magician over his shoulder; despite being bent in half over Wilson, he very nearly drags on the ground. “By the way, nobody else attempt that pressure point strike. If you’re an inch or so off you can crush the windpipe. Or rupture the artery. Or cause a massive stroke. I just so happen be a professional. It’s science. Goodnight, everyone.”

Nothing good ever lasted in The Constant.


	6. Critical Position

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell (generic) - “What a dapper fellow!"
> 
> **Pride... Arrogance... Conceit...**
> 
> Maxwell (NPC) - "Looking good!"
> 
> **This was your fault...**
> 
> Maxwell's Head - "Hey, handsome."
> 
> **You did this...**
> 
> Maxwell's Light - "Aw, it remembers me."
> 
> **You...**
> 
> Nightmare Lock - "It keeps the master in the chair."
> 
> **You...**
> 
> Nightmare Throne - "It's less painful than it looks. Barely."
> 
> **You haven't escaped its pull...**
> 
> Maxwell Statue (DST) - "It seems silly now..."
> 
> **Your hubris... Maxy. It was always your weakness…**
> 
> Florid Postern - "Always did have a flair for the dramatic..."
> 
> **...Make your jokes…I'll be seeing you soon…**
> 
>   
> \-- _Charlie's reactions to Maxwell's DST examination quotes in the game’s source code, removed after Woodie's character update_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID YOU THINK I MADE THAT SHIT IN THE LAST CHAPTER UP WHOLE CLOTH
> 
> I HAVE BEEN STUDYING THE SOURCE MATERIAL YOU GUYS
> 
> CHARLIE IS FUCKING PISSED, SON
> 
> □■□■□■□■
> 
>  **BEFORE READING THIS CHAPTER,** go watch this video. It's from when I was in fucking high school and as old as YouTube itself, but I started thinking about it the other day and could not stop laughing. Humor is subjective but I swear to God if you replace all instances of “Spencer" and “Ben Bernanke" with “Wilson" and “The Great Maxwell" respectively it’s like a hundred times funnier
> 
> It works better if you imagine Maxwell as being completely psychologically broken at that point.
> 
> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=lTvW2IyhwZw
> 
> □■□■□■□■
> 
> Anyway pls enjoy 30 more fucking pages of exposition, a lot of which is lifted directly from source material because that is how I do
> 
> I NEED TO BE AS CANON-COMPLIANT AS POSSIBLE OKAY IT’S EXTREMELY IMPORTANT TO ME FOR NO ACTUAL GOOD REASON
> 
> AND IT’S PLOT-RELEVANT ALSO
> 
> IT’S NOT LAZY WRITING I SWEAR, EVEN IF I DID STEAL A JOKE FROM AN ANCIENT NEIL CICIEREGA VIDEO
> 
> Misc. Notes:
> 
> \--"fruitcake" in 1900-ish was solely used to describe a crazy person rather than a gay man, but the meaning didn’t really change until post-1920. It’s being used more in the former way than the latter way.
> 
> \--$10.56 is 1905 is about $300 in 2021, so a nice chunk of change
> 
> \--I imagine Warly being stronger than he looks because of his days dragging heavy shit around a kitchen.
> 
> \--Wilson, Maxwell, and Wendy all repeatedly reference Shakespeare (Wickerbottom is a bit of a dead giveaway), so in my headcanon Wilson actually knows his old lliterature/dead poets. Because he is a smert boi. Plus I've already made him reference Goethe so I guess I got to commit to it

Wilson finally manages to drag Maxwell’s carcass back to his tent. The man was surprisingly light, but so gangly and unwieldy that carrying him had proven more difficult than he'd thought.

_I just so happen be a professional. It’s science. Goodnight, everyone._

There was no way he could stagger back after that too-cool-for-school exit to ask for assistance. He’d rather struggle the rest of the way back to their end of the camp to save face. And so he did.

“Why do you have to be so _freakishly tall?_ Maybe _you’re_ a failed experiment, like your Tallbirds.”

He gently lays the magician on his bedroll and covers him with a blanket. Despite how scratchy they could be, Wilson preferred to use the Straw Rolls in warmer weather and only exchange them for the Fur Rolls when the temperatures started to drop. Nothing made him feel quite as disgusting as night sweats.

But it seemed Maxwell insisted on using the Fur Rolls year-round. They _were_ very soft and plush, and he knew Maxwell had a fondness for rabbits that he tried desperately to keep under wraps. He supposes his affection for them made sense—he _had_ been a stage magician, after all. Wilson wonders if he felt the same way about doves.

But Wilson didn’t exactly harbor any feelings for the hundreds of lab mice he’d gone through over the years. Maybe it was more a Maxwell thing rather than a magician thing.

It was funny—when Warly had first arrived and offered to cook for the camp, Wilson had told him in no uncertain terms was he to ever serve Maxwell rabbit. Warly had been disappointed—he had so many good rabbit recipes!—but Wilson had insisted. Warly, bless him, never asked why, but he did politely inquire as to why Wilson cared so much about observing the dietary restrictions of someone he supposedly hated so much. Which was, admittedly, a very good question. But now they _both_ knew the answer, he supposes, for better or worse.

Good ol' Warly. Wilson would have to keep his eyes peeled for an Ocean Biome so that they could all go deep sea fishing together. Warly loved the ocean, loved fishing, and loved seafood, and a few days at sea would be just what the science-doctor ordered. And Maxwell had a taste for Wobster. . .

Oh, right. Wilson gingerly takes one of Maxwell’s thin wrists and checks his pulse. His skin was cool, as always, but not cold. Pale, but not waxy or bluish. He palpates around Maxwell’s neck, and determines that everything feels as it should. The chop to his throat hadn’t even left a mark. Man, he really _was_ a professional.

He should really stick close by, though. Even though his tent was now across from Maxwell’s, he’d feel better if he was in the immediate vicinity. Just in case Wilson wasn’t _as much_ of a professional as he thought and the man really did have a stroke during the night. He. . .isn’t quite sure _what_ he'd do if that happened, but Wilson was nothing if not resourceful and quick on his feet. Worst came to worst, he'd just use up a Meat Effigy.

“I wouldn’t have needed to resort to dangerous methods of knocking you out if you had just put more Mandrakes in the world,” he whispers tetchily. “Be glad it was a pressure point strike and not the second option, Shovel to the back of the head.”

But despite his annoyance—a combination of fatigue and general crankiness—he can’t deny that fluttering that the image of a sleeping Maxwell stirred in his chest (as much as he wants to). It was like his aorta had been intubated and now _feelings_ were being pumped into his left ventricle, even though it was the left ventricle that pumped blood into the aorta and not the other way around and the passage of blood was only one-way and _GAH he had to stop this nonsense._

Maybe this was how Maxwell felt when he thought about bunnies. Or medieval torture methods. Either or.

_This is **torture**! Please, Maxwell—_

. . .damn it all, he had been doing so well. He thought he could get through the entire day without thinking about that, despite how keen Willow was on bringing it up at every possible juncture.

_Oh, you really are my **absolute favourite** pawn._

It seemed that the crafty old dastard had been behind the dream, after all. Was his magic really so advanced? If he could will the ground to swallow him whole to escape an uncomfortable situation—a power Wilson never thought he would covet until today—without actually holding the Codex Umbra, then perhaps it was not outside the realm of possibility. Or perhaps it was like how Wilson would craft something so often that he no longer needed to double-check the instructions laid out by the Science Machine. How often had he seen Maxwell just appear and disappear before him at will? At _least_ five hundred and forty-three times.

He was going to get that sly old fox back, though, next time he decided to poke around in Wilson’s subconscious for nefarious and erotic purposes. He was going to give him something he wouldn’t soon forget, a good—

The phrase _dicking down_ pops into his head, unprompted and most certainly unwelcome. Wilson didn’t even know he _knew_ such a scandalous and sleazy colloquialism, and it disturbs him. The Shadow was bad enough, but now Maxwell was _infecting_ him with such _filth_ and he doesn’t care if Maxwell would laugh and call him a prude, he was a _Gentleman Scientist,_ damn it. With emphasis on _gentleman_ (and also on _scientist_ ).

He isn’t sure he could spend the night in Maxwell’s tent anymore. There was too much dark mag—too much _crazy stuff,_ he corrects himself—in here, and it was filling his head with _crazy_ thoughts.

But _someone_ had to be there in case the magician’s trachea decided to collapse. Not that it _would,_ as he was a _professional,_ but as Woodie had so aptly put it, they were still in Maxwell’s screwy world where nothing made a lick of sense.

. . .he briefly wonders if that’s why so many of his experiments had been successful since he came here.

Wilson drags his Straw Roll and blanket from his own tent and into Maxwell’s, carefully arranging it beside the unconscious magician. As he looks around, though, he finds his exhaustion is soon replaced by a familiar, invigorating sensation.

_Scientific curiosity._

He steals a quick glance at Maxwell and remembers that old idiomatic expression—curiosity killed the cat.

. . .but satisfaction brought it back.

His mind made up, he creeps over to the surprisingly basic desk that Maxwell must have constructed himself. It looked far too small for him; the splintery wood must dig into his knees something fierce. He'd have to construct a larger one for him. He’d gotten quite good at cobbling things together, if he did say so himself (and he did). Or better yet, he could commission Woodie to build one for him. The man did quality work despite his gruff, coarse—but still charming in a rustic sort of way—demeanor. Yes, a nice, varnished desk made of Living Logs would suit Maxwell just fine. . .

 _“Focus, boy,”_ he hisses to himself, yanking on his hair to induce enough of a sting to pull himself from his reverie and back into the present. _This is your one chance, Higgsbury, don’t squander it._

The desk itself was kept fairly tidy and clear of clutter, which seemed reasonable enough. Upon it sat a Feather Pencil, some sheets of Papyrus, and what looked to be some sort of brazier, just constructed slightly smaller as to fit on the desk. It was a gorgeous obsidian color, adorned with Gold and a large Red Gem, but looking at it made his skin crawl despite its beauty and fine craftsmanship. It takes him a moment to realize it’s just a more diminutive Night Light, a lamp that runs on Nightmare Fuel. At least it was off, but it still gave him the heebie-jeebies.

Sitting beside it was that Silk mesh pouch full of Dark Petals, which also made sense. Had to fuel the Night Light, after all. But seeing it filled him with a powerful impulse to petulantly swipe it off the desk and on to the ground. “This whole thing started because of you, stupid petals.”

He carefully, _carefully_ slides open the desk drawer, which sticks because it was shoved in lopsided and Maxwell couldn’t build a proper desk to save his life, but it finally comes loose with a lot of tentative finagling.

Stars and atoms, it was _packed full_ of junk.

Little notes to himself that started in a delicate script—"ooooh, fancy-fancy,” he can hear Willow remark in his head, as she would so often do while he was taking his morning tea—gradually turned frenetic and wild, digging so hard into the paper that it tore. Diagrams on Obelisks, notes on Shadows, complete with illustrations. Notes that were carefully-worded and read in his usual measured and even speech were mixed in with those that were nothing but frantic indecipherable gibberish and splattered with what appeared to be Fuel and dried blood.

Wilson quashes that itchy-fluffy fiberglass sensation in his chest—who would even make delicious fairy floss out of glass, that just seemed unnecessarily cruel—and delves further into the pile of papers.

He finds a worn booklet that looks a bit like a boarding pass, for one William Carter and with an APPROVED stamped over it in red ink. For a ship called Quest, dated July 26, 1901, from Liverpool to New York City. _A Scouser, huh. He doesn’t sound like one._ It wouldn’t shock him if Maxwell had practiced elocution to class up his accent.

Interestingly enough, the identification photograph is scratched out. A shame. He'd really wanted to see what a cutie the younger Maxwell was.

. . .by which he meant he was _scientifically curious_ as to how Maxwell’s appearance had changed prior to him adopting The Amazing Maxwell stage persona.

The next item he finds is a partially-crumpled poster, as if it had been ripped down in frustration. Here as well, William's face is partially scratched out, but his discomfort and nerves are apparent as he haltingly holds a rabbit by the ears. _William Carter: performing feats of the mysterious for your entertainment and edification._

Wilson currently considers himself both entertained and edified, but still not quite satisfied. He’s also feeling very, _very_ uneasy. Maybe because Maxwell kept gouging William's face out of everything like a weirdo. Somehow that was even more chilling than the blood-spattered ravings of a madman.

The one small comfort is that William’s bowtie-and-large-round-glasses-combo is so heart-meltingly adorable it soothes him enough to press onward. It didn’t _do things_ to him in the same way that Maxwell’s current appearance did, though the compulsion to wrap William in a big fluffy blanket and spoonfeed him a hot fudge sundae was just as foreign to this man of science as all those (frankly distressing) lewd and lascivious urges Maxwell had been stoking within him, like Willow with a fire iron. It was giving him a serious case of whiplash and _both_ William _and_ Maxwell needed to _quit that._

Oh, this note was a bit strange. And that was saying something, considering.

_William!_

_You are late again! Where is the muny? Do you think Mr. Witherstone is runnin a charatee? You better pay up this week or there will be trubble! I will find you!_

That was. . .ominous. How many loan sharks and general ne’er-do-wells had Maxwell been in debt to before becoming Maxwell? He almost wishes he had known William back then. He was sure if he had spun his parents some tripe about trying to further art and culture by becoming a benefactor to an up-and-coming outsider artist, they would have sent him money hand over fist.

Of course, he would have also been a child at the time. He frowns.

Oh, this one was a postcard. From California, it looked like.

_William,_

_You've finally come to America! How exciting! Has your show taken New York by storm yet? I fear we may have just missed each other - the city was too much for me, so I've gone west - It really is amazing out here - maybe you could visit sometime?_

_Have you corresponded with mother lately? The post is dreadfully inconsistent out here, I can't believe she hasn't met the twins yet!_

_Warmest regards,_

_-Jack._

Oh, that had to be. . .

_Father was. . .also very kind. You remind me of him._

Stars, why did thinking about that always make his heart hurt so much.

He tries to distract himself with a newspaper clipping.

_TRAGIC TRAIN CRASH_

_August 23, 1904_

_Circus wagon struck at crossing_

_Many passenger injuries reported_

_Elephant unharmed_

Wilson snorts.

_A passenger train struck a circus wagon that had broken down along the tracks at the Old Mill crossing. Dozens of passengers were injured, and at least one man is missing. The missing man has yet to be identified, but fellow passengers described him as a tall, nervous fellow with an English accent._

“Wonder who that could be.”

_A search party was convened but quickly abandoned when it became apparent that a cage full of potentially dangerous trained monkeys had been vacated in the collision. Given the remoteness of the crash site, the scorching desert sun, and the escaped animals, the missing man has been presumed dead._

Wilson scowls.

_This is the third such incident at the crossing since the railway's construction in 1873, but the first to involve a circus wagon. Local businessman and railway investor Harold J. Rutherford assured this publication that all pertinent safety precautions had been taken, but no one could have foreseen the appearance of such a dangerous blockage on the tracks_

The thought of using his family’s wealth and influence like a cudgel had always disgusted him—he wanted to be known by his merits, his inventions, the strides he'd made in the field of science—but the _righteous indignation_ he was feeling on Maxwell’s behalf was making him reconsider. He would have hired Maxwilliam the best lawyer money could buy and sued the railroad company into bankruptcy for their (repeated!) negligence.

. . .maybe he _was_ a spoiled little blueblood.

Or maybe it was Maxwell’s fault for being dumb. Yeah, definitely that one.

Included with the article is a circus poster. Maybe that was _their_ wagon with which Maxwell’s train had collided.

_ABERNETHY & PARKER CIRCUS_

_COMING TO YOUR TOWN!_

_GOOD SPRINGS BULLFROG DELAMAR ROUND MOUNTAIN_

_KLONDYKE HARSHAW CHARLESTON FAIRBANK_

_DON'T MISS THE INCREDIBLE STRONGMAN_

Oh, perhaps it was. The article had mentioned an elephant, which was front and center on the poster, balancing on a large ball, and the poster also featured several monkeys in fezzes.

Balancing on the elephant itself was a man that looked _suspiciously_ like Wolfgang. Wilson is tempted to ask him about it.

Now he finds another postcard, but addressed to. . .Jack? Had Maxwell never sent it?

No, it was postmarked. In Nevada. And Jack’s address had been all scribbled out. Strange.

_Jack,_

_The strangest thing has happened! Please discount all reports of my demise, should they reach you. I am very much alive, despite my recent misadventures. I have discovered something, a book of sorts. I have yet to decode it fully, but what little I have deciphered has opened my mind to terrifying new possibilities. I shan't say more through post - I fear it may attract unwanted attention. All will be explained when we meet. I shall continue west forthwith! -William_

“ _Stars above,_ ” he hisses to the unconscious magician, “you told _Jack_ about it? Dingbat. Maybe _that’s_ what killed his daughter.”

If Maxwell had been trying to cover his tracks, it was possible he had nicked the postcard while visiting his brother. Though how he expected that to throw anyone off the proverbial scent instead of just arousing more suspicion was beyond even Wilson’s brilliant scientific mind to try and comprehend.

“‘ _I shan't say more through post,_ ’” Wilson jeers quietly in a poor mockery of Maxwell’s voice. “‘ _I fear it may attract unwanted attention._ ’ Just yell ‘mwahaha, no one will suspect a thing!’ next time, you limey old fruitcake, it’ll have the same result.”

Heh, limey fruitcake. He'd have to write that one down.

He should probably also stop having conversations with Maxwell, even quiet ones, if he didn’t want to rouse him. But unfortunately, talking through things aloud was how he processed information. And there was _a lot_ of processing happening right now.

Along with the postcard is a coach ticket to San Francisco dated August 15th, 1904. That must have been to go visit Jack.

And. . .a worn, yellowed photograph.

Wilson handles it with the utmost care, cradling it in his hands as if it were a delicate blue robin eggshell he'd wanted to preserve.

It’s Jack and William, holding two tiny, fair-haired babies that can’t be more than a year old. William's face is partially scratched out in keeping with the recurring theme, but his body language suggests he’s positively beaming with pride, along with his brother.

Speaking of which, Jack is a dead ringer for Maxwell. Wendy had said that Maxwell had borne a striking resemblance to her father, but he didn’t realize they'd been twins as well. The only difference between them is that Jack has a pencil mustache, which not many men can pull off. But Jack does it with aplomb. Impressive, really.

Heh, what was the _opposite_ of an evil twin?

He does some quick math in his head. Wendy had to be ten or so, and she and Abigail must have been born around 1903—making it roughly 1913 or 14 when she entered The Constant. And he distinctly remembers it being 1921 when he had been taken. So how had she not aged. . .? She would have to be at least eighteen by now, and for some reason that made him even _more_ deeply uncomfortable with Abigail’s overtures than before.

_What year is it out there? Time moves differently here._

What year, indeed. He’d stopped measuring time long ago. Here time was measured in deaths.

He studies the photograph for another few moments. But the longer he looked, the more the warmth behind his eyes that threatened tears grew. He couldn’t just bury this back in the desk. He had to preserve it, somehow.

He carefully slips it in his innermost waistcoat pocket, the one closest to his chest. He’d think of something. He always did.

Next looks like a page ripped from a journal, along with plans for a Life-Giving Amulet and a Telelocator Staff.

_A terrible form took shape in the air above the ritual last night! It was large and indistinct, but its countenance was infused with a sort of alien malevolence that chilled me to my very core. My fear was so great that I almost faltered in my incantations._

_It made no hostile motions, however and after having hung in the aether for a time, it shivered out of existence. What was it? Was it observing me? Is it the guardian of some deeper secret to which I am drawing closer? In any event, I am not keen to meet its like again._

“Yeah, how'd that one work out for you.” _Damn it, me, stop talking!_

On the page is a drawing of a Terrorbeak. Those were Willow’s least favorite, and he can’t say he was all that fond of them, either. Per Maxwell, that was also the kind of Shadow he had coughed up. He has to suppress a gag.

Oh, a requisition for a newspaper ad, looked like.

_San Francisco Call Classified Advertisement Requisition_

_To appear in the [X] early [X] late edition(s)_

_On the following days [X]M [X]T [X]W [X]Th [X]F [X]Wk_

_Starting on June 6th, 1905_

_In the category of Employment Opportunities_

_Copy (2 cents per word per edition):_

_Looking to hire a lady assistant for a magician's stage show. Previous experience unnecessary, but should have a curious demeanor and a keen interest in the mysteries of the universe. Must provide own costume._

_Contact information:_

_~~William Carter~~ _

_c/o Palace Hotel,_

_San Francisco, California_

Wilson can feel his earlier sympathy for Maxwell starting to curdle. The ad was eighty-eight cents per edition, two editions per day, five days a week plus the weekend edition—that was $10.56 a week! Not only was he dropping a nice chunk of change on classified ads for however many weeks, the Palace Hotel was a very swanky place with a huge price tag. (Or it had been, prior to the fire that gutted it. Which he only knew because. . .Willow.)

And this skin-flinted, penny-pinching, tightwad _cheapskate_ had the _nerve,_ had the unmitigated _gall,_ to insist whatever attractive young “lady assistant” fell into his lap supply her own damn costume. And then. AND THEN. Tried to tell Wilson he was a pampered little popinjay who didn’t know the value of a dollar.

“Better a dandy than a miserly old slimeball,” Wilson hisses, not caring if Maxwell actually heard that one.

Now he felt like he had to go wash off all the sleaze. This, of course, was not helped by all the new posters he discovers. The man loved to look at himself, if the statues Wilson had found littered all over The Constant, especially en route to the Throne, were any indication. Maxwell The Great, The Amazing Maxwell, all of which featured Shadows, the Codex, and his big stupid face. Vain old peacock.

_THE AMAZING MAXWELL_

_PERFORMING FEATS TO ASTOUND AND MYSTIFY_

This one featured the woman who freed him from the Throne—and subsequently drained him of all his King powers before dropping him back here. There were worse things, he supposes. She was such a pretty young thing, though. . .he feels a little guilty.

Oh, and a note. He definitely recognizes the handwriting—it was identical to the note that had fallen out of the Codex earlier. So _of course_ Maxwell would have kept this.

_Hey Maxy,_

_We really knocked 'em dead last night, didn't we? I thought that old guy in the front wasn't going to make it. Those shadow things are so convincing - they almost scare me, and I'm part of the act!_

_We can work on the new finale when I get back from my sister's place. I'm looking forward to it!_

_~ Charlie_ ♥

. . .She didn’t know. And she probably didn’t find out until it was much too late. Ugh, that made everything so much _worse._

There’s one more letter, written much more hurriedly than the previous. But it’s still unmistakably Charlie’s handwriting.

_Max,_

_Where are you? I haven't heard from you in days! I stopped by your place, so I've got your props and costume for the show. I'll see you at the theatre tonight, I hope?_

_We need to talk about your... Study room. There's some creepy stuff going on in there! Maybe when this run is over we can take a little break? My sister said we could use the family cabin up in BC if we want to get away_

_XO,_

_Charlie_

Wilson can feel his bile rise, lapping at the back of his throat. This must have been right before. . .

But what was this about a “study room?” His thumb trails over the phrase—

—and he’s in a dark crawlspace, lit by one naked hanging bulb. The only furnishings are a small desk and a simple stool. He recognizes the circus poster above the desk, along with the posters of Maxwell's magic act. Notes are also grouped here and there, and hanging up is the pinstriped suit he'd never seen Maxwell without.

On the desk sits the Codex Umbra atop several other nondescript books—journals, perhaps?—along with a small vase holding two wilting roses. One from Charlie’s hair and one from Maxwell’s lapel, he presumed.

Wilson automatically reaches for the Lantern sitting on the stool, raising it to cast its light on the walls.

“What in the name of. . .?”

Much as Maxwell had furiously tried to scribble William from existence, so too had he scribbled all over the walls. No, not mere scribbling. The walls had been completely _gouged_ with what could only be bits and pieces of incarnations, marked with strange runic symbols. And the scratch marks, scratch marks _everywhere,_ tinged with blood like the perpetrator had ripped open their fingers while clawing at the walls like an animal.

_DEVINCTIONIBUS_

_insaniam_

_Enough!_

_Magicae_

_pretiositas_

_ALUCINATION_

_ Voces _

_tenebris_

_it's T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊_

_Charlie_

**_Charlie_ **

**_ CHARLIE _ **

Wilson falls backwards as if he'd been shoved, right on to his straw mattress. Maxwell remains stone-cold dead asleep beside him, deaf to his hyperventilating and oblivious to his heart pounding two hundred beats per minute. He jumps up, shoves the desk drawer closed, and scrambles out of the tent.

_Incantation. Insanity. Magic. Cost. Illusion. Voices. Darkness._

_Enough. It's T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊._

Wilson wants to run. Run through the wilderness, but that was a bad idea. Run through the camp, but he can’t. The others would panic. And only parts of it were lit besides. Like Maxwell had said earlier, he didn’t want to chance an encounter with

_Charlie_

**_Charlie_ **

**_ CHARLIE _ **

**__ **

So he just runs in a circle between his and Maxwell’s tent. Runs like a Gobbler fleeing pursuit, runs until his lungs threaten collapse, runs until the adrenaline wears off and his legs finally give out from under him.

As he sits panting on the ground, a healthy dose of fatigue finally dulling his hysteria, he realizes he still has Charlie’s final note crammed in his fist. Panic wells in him anew as he tries desperately to uncrumple the paper and pray Maxwell won’t notice.

Except the writing had changed.

_It’s impolite to snoop through people’s things. So I sated your curiosity. You’re welcome._

_Mind your wandering eyes in the future, scientist. I'd hate to have to pluck them from your pretty little head._

_The dream was yours. I just linked it to Maxy's. It was my power, not his. He has no real power, just cheap parlor tricks. But that’s all magic is, isn’t it? Illusions. Smoke and mirrors._

_Consider the dream-sharing a little gift from me. But I’m not above trading the carrot for the stick. Tread lightly._

_XO_

Wilson crams his fist into his mouth and bites down as hard as he can. If he started screaming now, he’d never stop.

He shoves the paper in his pocket and rocks back and forth on the ground, clutching his hair in the fist _not_ jammed into his facehole.

He _has_ to calm down.

He _needs_ to calm down.

It must be time for Dapper Gentlemen Calm-Down Time once again. This had to be, what, the third time today?

. . .Dapper Gentlemen Calm-Down Time required _two_ dapper gentlemen, though.

Not trusting himself to stand, he crawls along the Cobblestone Path separating their two shelters and through the Silk flaps of Maxwell’s tent. Right now he just wants, more than anything, to take comfort in being in close proximity to another living person. Even if that person was debatably more Fuel than man. Even if that person was _still_ a giant sleazebag who hadn’t quite learned his lesson. Even if that person _did_ have a disturbing obsession with his assistant—even _before_ he had damned her here with the rest of them—that had not abated in a decade and a half _at the least._

He curls up as closely to the still-unconscious Maxwell as he dares, knees bent toward his chest with his shins just barely making contact with Maxwell’s thigh. There was no heat coming from him, but there was a physical presence, a firmness that assured him there was meat and bone beyond the thin fabric. No omniscient demon Queens that reigned in darkness, no there-but-not-there Shadows that occasionally manifested inside him, no spectral prepubescent girls with silly spectral prepubescent girl crushes _that shouldn’t even exist because science said so and **science would never lie to him, not ever**_

He releases a shaky little exhale, one he doesn’t realize is a tad too close to Maxwell’s ear until the man stirs to rub it against his shoulder, the briefest glimpse of annoyance crossing his features. Wilson finds himself relieved; the magician had been lying so still that he didn’t even appear to be breathing. Wilson briefly holds a finger under his nose, just to check, and relaxes when he feels two soft puffs of air touch his skin.

He’s alive. He’d be grumpy when he woke up—he'd likely be grumpy regardless—but he was _real_ and he was _there_ and he was _breathing_ and that was all Wilson needed to keep him grounded right now, especially on this creepy night in this creepy tent full of creepy mementos and creepy echoes of a creepy past.

He takes Charlie’s warning from his pocket and rereads it, just to make sure he hadn’t hallucinated the entire thing.

_He has no real power, just cheap parlor tricks. But that’s all magic is, isn’t it? Illusions. Smoke and mirrors._

Maxwell would _not_ be happy with that. With _any_ of that. Wilson thinks he should probably not show him this note. If her previous message to him had provoked such a strong reaction—one that could only be tempered by abruptly cutting off bloodflow to his brain—then this message might finally, irreparably break him.

_I’m not above trading the carrot for the stick._

_Tread lightly._

Somehow Wilson suspects it’s not a matter of _if_ she decides to trade the carrot for the stick, but _when._

_Enjoy your peace while it lasts. This season will not be merciful._

He wonders why she had even deigned to give them both a little “gift" when she had sent Maxwell—all of the Survivors, really—what was clearly a threat. But it occurs to him that maybe she was taking a page out of Maxwell’s book and playing mind games with everyone. Trying to shake their determination, toy with their morale.

But still. . .why? Why would she mess with their dreams, of all things? Especially because any affection she'd had for Maxwell had died years ago—it seemed extremely odd for her to want to do him what could be construed as a favor. Why try to artificially further a romantic relationship along? What was in it for her? Was she just sick of Maxwell pining over her? Maybe she just wanted to make him squirm? Make them _both_ squirm?

_Do you think Maxwell’s infecting you with his weird black magic stuff?_

_Yeah, but nobody else was on the Throne. Maybe you’re just more sensitive to it now._

_I don’t wanna say “stay away from Maxwell,” but. . .I dunno either, Wilson. I really don’t._

**_You haven't escaped the pull of the Throne. You or your pet scientist._ **

Wilson crumples the note in his fist, wadding it into a tight ball.

_The king is, by all measures, a liability to everyone on the board._

_The King is, by all measures, a liability to everyone on the Board._

**_T̶̹͌h̶̛̳e̵̖̟͗ ̶͖͈͐K̵̬̩̃ḯ̵̞̈́n̴̰̪͑g̵̫͎̀s̸̖͌ ̵͉̎ä̶͉́ŗ̵͉̅̐è̴͚,̷̦̦́͐ ̵̮̓͜b̴̫y̴͖͂̿ ̷̝̳͌a̷̯̜͂͆l̶̜̳̀̌ļ̴͈̎̏ ̵̩͂m̵̠̺̋e̷̛̖̠ą̶̃̈s̸͓̰̔͗u̵͙̔͜͝r̵̨͠ë̷͈̗́s̴̼̠̐͝,̷̟̜ ̶͈͒̚ͅl̸̮̖̊ị̸̒a̶̪̓̑ḇ̶̗̅͑i̷̭̇l̷̢͖̀͂i̷̢͋ͅt̶̝͆͌i̶̭͛e̸̡̮͌s̷̪͘ ̵͈̊̄t̵͉̬͑͘ơ̵̩͖ ̵͈̮̓̿ȩ̵͍͑͐v̷̬͎̕ḛ̸̀r̴̖̄̿ỵ̴͝o̶̭̓́n̴͕̒͝e̴̮̥̋̈́ ̵̬̕ȯ̴͙̗̈́n̶͇͚̍́ ̴͉͝t̶̜̟͐́h̸̼̚e̷͍̬͠ ̴̥̿B̶̥̖̔̿ơ̶͉̅ą̴r̶͔͔̚d̴̨̊̕.̵͇͊͆_ **

_So you want to keep the two liabilities together. And if they manage to snap and kill each other, then the problem solves itself._

He and Maxwell weren’t just liabilities to the camp. They were flint and tinder that would burn up the whole Board if they got too close.

And Charlie knew that. Damn the madwoman, she _knew_ that.

He had deposed Maxwell and taken his powers. She had deposed _him_ and taken _his_ powers _._ But they were still rogue elements in her game, just as Wilson had been in Maxwell’s. She had to bring them to heel, one way or another.

So why not do it in the most exquisitely torturous way imaginable?

They were never kings. Not once. They were pawns when they got here and had never stopped being pawns. Even when they made it to the end of the board, awaiting promotion, they remained pawns.

Only the Queen was actually a queen.

Despite the futility of their situation, Wilson, surprisingly, feels a little calmer than he did. Much more clear-headed now, surely, which he attributes to being _so goddamn angry._

But anger was good. It was a stabilizing force, taking the raw voltage of yet another nervous breakdown and filtering it through a capacitor. An anger capacitor. And giving him a workable electrical current that wouldn’t fry him like bacon. Like a. . .like a current made of motivation. Yeah, a motivation current.

Who needed Charlie’s _femme fatale_ mind games and Maxwell’s smoke and mirrors when he had the power of his MIND and SCIENCE?

Yes, he was feeling _much_ better, now.

Maxwell stirs slightly, unaware of Wilson’s new and unwavering sense of purpose. He'd have to fill in the magician on what he’d figured out tomorrow morning, and then they could brainstorm from there. Then they’d have a Latin lesson, and he'd show Charlie what kind of cheap parlor tricks

_two men with a high level of skill in their respective disciplines_

could do.

“You’re getting your wish, Charlie,” he whispers. “because I really don’t intend to stay away from Maxwell, after all. And that’s saying something, because the guy is clearly _nuts._

. . .Definitely a lot more so than I had originally thought.”

_Tread lightly._

“Actually, your Highness. . .I don’t think I will. I think I will stomp through the Marsh and track mud all over your Throne Room, just because you told me not to.”

One should, under no circumstances, tell a scientist _not_ to do something. He will only just do it _harder._ Even the Queen would learn, eventually.

But he had been trying to stave off exhaustion for far too long, now. It was seeping into his bones, replacing the marrow with wet cement.

He uses the last of his energy and his newfound courage to touch where he had struck Maxwell, right at the vagus nerve, and follows the length of his carotid artery with a finger. His heart skips a beat when Maxwell actually _shivers._

He stops at the spot right below his ear and gives it a small tickle, and he feels like he could die of happiness when a faint smile tugs on the magician’s lips and his chest flutters just so with a not-quite-chuckle.

Yes, Wilson thinks, closing his eyes as he smiles himself, everything was going to be just fine. They'd figure something out, one way or another.

□■□■□■□■

THE AMAZING MAXWELL

SAN FRANCISCO

APRIL 17, 1906

The curtains open, revealing a wooden backdrop that looks somehow. . .familiar, along with two performers. A vivacious Charlie gestures to the imposing figure beside her and claps. Maxwell takes a sweeping, dramatic bow, then holds up his hands to silence the audience.

THANK YOU VERY MUCH. YOU ARE TOO KIND.

He looks at Charlie, and the two share a knowing smile before he fixes the audience with a dazzling, roguish grin. Gloved hands held up once more, fingers spread, possibly to demonstrate that he has nothing in them.

With a flourish and a puff of smoke, he pulls the Codex Umbra out of thin air. Charlie fans the smoke away before throwing out her arms in a “ta-da!” gesture. Then she pulls back slightly, holding the arm that rests at her side while she waits for Maxwell’s next move.

He raises an eyebrow at her, still wearing a _very_ cocksure smile, and extends the open Codex to her. She accepts it and Maxwell faces front once more, arms folded behind his back. Charlie pans the open Codex around for all to see. Just a normal, average, run-of-the-mill book.

She holds the open Codex at arm's length in front her; she turns back to Maxwell, and he to her. He reads from it, summoning two sweeping arcs of black flame that follow the path of his arms. Upon closer inspection, the tongues of flame are little Shadow faces that open their little mouths wide before vanishing into the aether. A warmup.

AND NOW I WILL PULL SHADOWS INCARNATE FROM THIS MYSTERIOUS TOME

He smirks at the audience, tugging on his cuff link in an exaggerated “nothing up my sleeve" gesture, before drawing back with a vicious sneer and plunging his arm into the Codex up to the elbow.

But when he attempts to yank something out, that something yanks _back._ His confident façade drops, and Charlie’s eyes widen in alarm. The exact moment she realizes this wasn’t part of the act.

A clawed hand seizes Maxwell by the shoulder, trying to pull him into the tome. Charlie drops the Codex to the floor in shock, and a struggle ensues. Maxwell is pulled to his knees, and the Shadow Hand very nearly wrenches his shoulder from the socket.

As Maxwell fights to free himself from the Hand's grasp, it grabs him around the back of his skull. Charlie panics in place, hands raised to her mouth and biting on her fingers, eyes darting around as she tries to figure out what she should do.

Maxwell finally pulls back with a great cry, and the Shadow Hand retreats. Charlie rushes to his side to help him up, and he gives her a pitiful, chagrined look.

For a split-second, a Shadow Watcher casts its pall over the scene, and Maxwell and Charlie both squint in suspicion at the Codex, whose pages are now rapidly turning of their own accord.

Then two enormous Shadow Hands seize magician and assistant, swinging them around like ragdolls while destroying the stage in T̷̡͈̞̖̫̝̬̺̝͔̟͓̻͛͐͆͆͂͝ẖ̴̛̠̤̞̭̩̜̼͕̍͗͌̾̈́̈͗̅͌͜͜ȩ̴̻̺̰̺͓̘͉͊i̴͓̿̅̈r̸̨̡̡͎̠̯͈̪̦̬̣̞͕͎̰̆̿̈́͗̋̇̔̀̀̀͂͋͘ fury. Stage lights crash into the rubble below, and the scene suddenly cuts, like a film reel being yanked from its projector.

“̴̡̨̛͓͔͍̟͉̥̙̟̜̠̦̐̓́̐́̒͂͒͊̈̈́͗̇̎͜ **͓A̸̡̝̪̙̞͇͔̙̖̗̬̓͐̋̾h̸̰͚͋̓̈͌̎͌͌͝h̶̡̝̲̺͖̺̗͈͙͍͍͍̥̩͌̔̾̈̀̽̀̃̓̓͛̐̒̚͝!̶̡̡̲̜̼̿̈́̽̃̄̈́̏͊̇̑͘͘̕͝”̸̛̳̤̥͓̊̿́͌̈́͐̏̏͒̒**

Wilson jolts awake, bathed in cold sweat and clutching his chest. Stars, what was _that_ all about?

“This was the worst idea I've ever had. Next time I have to knock you out and keep you for observation, we're staying in _my_ tent. You hear me, Maxwell?

. . .Maxwell?”

The Fur Roll beside him is empty. And while it could just be the residual nightmare, or the presence of all things Nightmare, something felt. . .off.

That’s when he sees the Dark Sword sticking out of the ground beside him.

And impaled on its blade is the message Charlie had sent him last night. The one he must have fallen asleep with still crumpled in his hand.

_He has no real power, just cheap parlor tricks. But that’s all magic is, isn’t it? Illusions. Smoke and mirrors._

“Oh no. Oh no. _Oh nononononono._ ”

Wilson jumps up, grabs the Sword, and runs out of the tent.

“. . .what in the name of science. . .?”

A thick miasma of Shadow follows the Cobblestone Paths that wind through the camp. Maxwell was in a _mood._ A mood so unbelievably foul that it left a physical trail of darkness behind him.

Wilson takes off at a run. _Please don’t be **that** mad please don’t be **that** mad **PLEASE** don’t be **THAT** mad_

As he gets closer, he can hear a distinct clanging, like steel scraping stone. And several voices shouting.

_OH NO HE’S MAD HE’S MAD HE’S MAD **HE’S SUPER MAD**_

Maxwell and three(!) Shadow Puppets of himself, all armed with Dark Swords, are furiously attacking the Floral Postern in a frothing, foaming frenzy. Wolfgang, Woodie, and Wigfrid are trying to stop him, but both he and his clones are swinging too wildly for them to get close enough to subdue the magician.

“Wilson!” Willow comes running to meet him. “What the hell happened? The old man’s gone even _more_ batshit crazy than he was last night! He just started screaming and going apeshit on that portal! He's totally lost the plot!”

At the sound of Wilson’s name, Maxwell actually stops. With his concentration broken, the Puppets also cease, awaiting further orders.

“Nöw, men!” Wigfrid yells, and she, Woodie, and Wolfgang tackle each clone.

**_“̴̛̞̀͆H̷̨̤̟͘i̵͎̓̉̕g̵̼̫̞̈́g̶̛̥ş̵̠̤̒̅̏s̶̱͈͊͋̂s̸̪͝s̴̹̖͂̎ͅḃ̷̞u̷̢͉͙͑̓r̸̮̀͜͠r̶̖͍͊r̴̼͌͐ȓ̵̖͓̓͌ỳ̷̡̖.̷̭͙̃”̸̛̳͉͍̔*_ **

Maxwell slurs out the name in a cloud of fine, dark mist. Not like smoke—it's the wrong color, and there’s no cigar present—but if Fuel possessed a gaseous form. And Wilson didn’t. . .think it did? He was _pretty_ _sure_ it didn’t.

Maxwell staggers over to him like a drunk, sneering widely, barely upright, and dragging his Sword behind him.

 _“You’re the architect of my dreams, Higgsbury. You plan them and build them on Blueprints and hand them to me. And then I DREAM them, Higgsbury. That’s what you do for me.”_ Maxwell’s lip curls briefly in disgust. _“Thank you for THAT, Higgsbury. You **prick.** ”_

“What are you even talking about, old man? You’re not making any damn sense!”

But Maxwell lurches past Willow as if she weren’t even there, those clouded-over black eyes trained on Wilson.

 _“I'm a magician, Higgsbury. A **furious** magician.” _He raises his Sword and points it at the scientist’s chest with a crazed giggle. _“I’m The Great Maxwell, Higgsbury. And I want your teeth for the Bank of England!”_

“Oh.” Wilson stares blankly at the brandished blade. “Well.”

And then the scientist utters a word neither Wolfgang, Woodie, Wigfrid, or Willow had heard him use before. Not while free of Shadow influence. It actually causes the first three to pause in their pummeling of Maxwell’s Puppets.

“Shit.”

Wilson is really glad he'd had the foresight to grab the Dark Sword Maxwell had left behind in the tent, because right now it was the only thing keeping his head from being bisected right down the middle. It had happened so quickly that his brain didn’t have time to process it until after the fact—Maxwell had lunged at him, knocking him flat on his back. And Wilson had interrupted the path of Maxwell’s blade with the second Dark Sword, held horizontally in front of him.

Except Wilson had momentum and potential energy working against him at the moment—damn it, science!—and Maxwell’s Sword is steadily inching far too close to his face. He shoots a quick, panicked look in Willow's direction. “Uh, help!?”

“Right!” She runs over, her Lighter lit—

And a massive Shadow Hand seizes her around the middle and slams her into one of the Stone Walls surrounding the camp. Once. Twice. Thrice. Four times. Until her screaming abruptly cuts off and she stops struggling.

_“Willöw! Nö!”_

Woodie furiously sinks Lucy into the head of the Shadow Puppet beneath him with enough force to splatter himself in a spray of Fuel, and shoves some sort of meat-filled doll into his mouth.

And then a _very angry_ Weremoose charges right into Maxwell, sending him airborne.

Wilson scrambles over to Willow, banishing the Shadow Hand in one surgical slice and tossing the Sword aside to scoop her up in his arms. “Willow? Willow!? Can you hear me? _Willow!_ ”

But she’s out cold. He cradles her head to his chest, and his hand comes away covered in blood.

“ _Nonononono_ —” He grabs her Lighter and jams it into one of his waistcoat pockets. “ _Wigfrid! Wolfgang!_ You alright?”

“Yes, Wilsön, we're fine!” They’re shaken and stained with Fuel, but they appear to be in one piece.

“ _Good!_ Because I need a bowl of water, a Healing Salve, and some Silk, _right now!_ ” He turns around to where he had last seen the Weremoose. “Woodie, I— _WOODIE!_ ”

Woodie stops trampling Maxwell into the dirt. “Oh. Um. Yes?”

His voice is gravelly and gruffer than usual, and Wilson swears he can hear Woodie’s vocal cords stretching and warping to try and accommodate human speech. It belatedly occurs to him that Woodie likely never speaks in this form; it sounds so bizarre and unnatural that it makes Wilson’s hair stand on end, and for once he’s far too preoccupied to be scientifically curious about the ins and outs of Weremoose vocalizations.

“First, _stop giving me more work to do!_ Second, run down to the other end of camp and get me my Sewing Kit. It should be right on my desk, you can’t miss it.”

“You got it, doc.” He gallops off.

“Don’t call me. . .” Wilson sighs. “. . .nevermind.”

He cradles the unconscious Willow closer, keeping firm pressure on the back of her head. “H-Hang in there, little firebug,” he murmurs quietly, smoothing her hair as he tries to tamp down his panic. “Your favorite b-big dumb nerd will get you all patched up quick, fast, and in a hurry. Before you even wake up. You won’t feel a thing.” He gently touches his forehead to hers. “O-Okay? You're going to feel sick when you wake up, but once you can keep food down I'll ask Warly to make your favorite. Don’t be scared. E-Everything will be okay. I'll take good care of you. I promise.”

He isn’t sure if he’s trying to reassure Willow or himself, but the answer was yes. He rocks her back and forth against him as he waits. “Don’t be scared, Willow, don’t be scared. . .”

“We have the items yöu requested, Wilsön!” Wigfrid slides down into the grass beside him, holding the bowl protectively to her chest.

“Yes! Wolfgang has Salve and Silk for tiny torchlady!” Wolfgang kneels next to Wigfrid. “Crazy science man make sure she no hurt?”

“Thank you both. And, uh. . .yes. Crazy science man no hurt tiny torchlady.” Wilson carefully arranges Willow so that she lies on his left shoulder, with her face buried in his clavicle. The slow breathing against his skin, as if she were simply deep in sleep, soothes him somewhat. He dampens the Silk in the water provided and, holding back her hair with his left hand, dabs gingerly at her wound.

“I am nö döctör, Wilsön, but shöuld there be this much blööd. . .?”

He sucks in a deep breath to steady his voice. “Head wounds are deceptive. Even very minor ones tend to bleed a lot. I am sure Willow will only need a stitch or two, and then she will be right as rain. Or. . .firestorm. Solar flare. I don’t know. Some fire-themed natural phenomenon.”

His tension starts to ease, just a little, now that the blood around the wound is finally starting to clot. “Wigfrid, could you hold her hair back for me, please? So I can get a better look?”

“Yes, öf cöurse.”

They’re interrupted by the thundering of hooves, and Woodie drops the Sewing Kit from his mouth into Wilson’s lap. “I didn’t get spit on it, bud, promise.”

“I appreciate it, Woodie. How's Maxwell?”

“Not dead, if that’s what yer askin'. Unfortunately.”

Wilson shoots him a brief incredulous look. “‘Unfortunately?’”

“Oh, right. Sorey, buddy. Forgot he was your beau.”

“No, I mean, it’s just unusual for you to want to actively wish harm on any—wait, what?”

“What?”

“. . .what did you call him?”

“Uh. . .” Woodie plops down on his hindquarters. “Your beau?”

Wilson momentarily raises his eyes to the heavens and mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like _“science give me strength.”_ Then he begins disinfecting Willow’s wound with the Salve. “Maxwell is not my _anything,_ beyond a pain in my neck. And I am not _his_ anything, beyond a thorn in his side.”

“Oh. It’s just last night, when Willow said—”

“Willow says a lot of things.”

“Hey, come on, noa. Maxwell said you were his favourite last night, too, eh?”

“Maxwell _also_ says a lot of things.”

“. . .He said he could kiss you.”

“And ten minutes ago he said he was a furious magician who wanted my teeth for the Bank of England,” Wilson snaps. “So can we just _not?_ ”

Woodie, thankfully, lets the matter drop. Though Wilson is a teensy bit grateful for the anger. It replaced the worry and steadied his hands. A stabilizing force.

For a while, the only sound is the wind rustling through the trees.

“You guys smell that?” Woodie raises his big, bulbous moose muzzle into the air and sniffs. “Storm's comin'.”

Wilson has threaded his needle, and is now using Willow’s Lighter to sterilize it. “The air _does_ smell damp, now that you mention it.”

“Is gray, dreary morning.”

“The Mönsöön Seasön will söön be upön us, it seems. What did the Röse Queen tell the magician last night, again?”

“‘This season will not be merciful.’” Wilson sinks the needle into Willow’s flesh, and all three Survivors watching him wince. He can’t help but feel a little pleased with himself. Vindicated, perhaps. “None of you have to look, you know.”

“It is. . .kind öf fascinating tö watch yöu wörk.”

“Yeah, he’s got pretty deft hands, eh? I don’t think I've ever seen anybody sew that fast. And especially not a person. And especially _especially_ not in the middle of a field.”

“Speaking of being in the middle of a field.” Wilson nods to Maxwell. “Wolfgang, could you haul Maxwell’s sorry carcass to the Siesta Lean-To over there, please? I'll take a look when I'm done here.”

“Wolfgang understand.” The strongman nods and carries Maxwell to the makeshift sickbay within the camp.

“‘Sörry carcass?’ ‘Tis a rather cöarse way tö refer tö öne's paramöur.”

Woodie snickers. Wilson closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose. _“Wigfrid.”_

“Sörry, sörry! T'was but a jest, my wise friend.”

“I dunno, little Wendy had a point last night aboat science and magic. It’s got me wonderin'. Plus they both got mighty nimble fingers, eh? I think he and ol’ Maxwell got more in common than we all thought.”

_“. . .what part of ‘can we just not' is so difficult to understand, here.”_

“Alright, alright, quit with the scary looks, eh? Wig and I are just havin' some fun with you, bud. Our situation's kinda grim, in case ya forgot.”

“I did not, I assure you.”

“Aww, come on, Wilson, don’t scowl. You’re gonna give yourself wrinkles and start lookin’ like Maxwell.”

“The magician might enjöy that. He is quite in löve with himself.”

“I really don’t know for whom I should feel more insulted, Maxwell or myself.” Wilson sighs with resignation as he winds the Silk around Willow’s head in a makeshift bandage. He'd given up trying to stop them at this point. He hadn’t been awake for an hour and he was already exhausted.

. . .but their presence kept him from spiraling into another episode. Kept him from getting trapped in his own head. Kept him grounded in reality while his grip on it was currently tenuous at best.

He ties off the bandage and hands her to the returning Wolfgang. “Willow, too. Please be careful with her. Support her neck and try not to jostle her too much.”

“Wolfgang will be careful with tiny torchlady. Cross heart.”

“Thank you.”

Woodie lies down in the grass, tucking his spindly legs beneath him. “You gonna be okay, buddy?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so.” He unconsciously runs a hand through his hair. . .and makes a face when it sticks. “Oh. Drat. Right. The blood.”

“Öh, I will fetch yöu söme höt water and söap! I shall return.” Wigfrid runs off.

“Thank—oh. She’s fast.”

“Yeah, she’s a pretty rambunctious gal, eh?” Woodie’s voice sounds much more human now that his moose vocal cords have seemingly adjusted. “Really tough. ‘Specially for an actress.”

“She takes that Valkyrie role really seriously. It was a lot to handle at first, but I think I'm slowly getting used to it.”

“Heh, you still don’t do people very well, do you? Nah, but I don’t blame ya. I'd say we're all a mess of oddballs, here. And Maxwell’s screwy world just amplifies the weird in everyone.”

“You’re right about that one.”

“. . .can I talk t'you, though? About Maxwell? No teasin', I promise.”

Wilson sighs, rubbing his temples. And getting more of Willow’s blood on his face in the process. “Sure. Why not.”

“What’s your deal with him, eh? You've been pretty chummy lately. I know it’s none of my business, and I'm sorey, I really am, but are you actually. . .?”

“I. . .it’s. . .complicated. We were both on the Throne, so he understands. We've collaborated together on several large projects, not just dimensional doorways. We talked a lot prior to the. . .entrapment, so he knows a lot about me, and I know a lot about him. Probably more than either of us wants to know about the other, honestly.” Still not having learned his lesson, he cups his chin in his bloody hand. “I think we have a sort of symbiotic relationship where getting on each other’s nerves keeps us both going. It’s hard to explain.”

Woodie nods solemnly, as if Wilson’s convoluted explanation makes perfect sense. Which, much like many of his attempts at reasoning, does not.

“. . .is it strange because we're both men?”

The surprisingly vulnerable question catches Woodie off-guard. “It’s strange because it’s _Maxwell,_ ” he blurts out without thinking.

“. . .Ah.”

Woodie hangs his head, immediately looking ashamed. “Sorey, I mean. . .I'm not good at this stuff. What I shoulda said was ‘no, I don’t think it’s strange.’ An’ though I can’t speak for the others, I don’t think that bothers them, either. I just don’t think anybody was expectin' it, eh?”

“That's. . .fair.”

“I've heard it said ‘the more you love, the more you fight.’ It works for you an' Willow, but nobody was expectin’ it to apply to you an' Maxwell, too. Oh, here comes Wig.” Woodie nudges Wilson’s shoulder with his nose. “For what it’s worth, I'm rootin' for ya, doc. He's a real pain in the keister, an' I'm still steamin' mad aboat Willow, but I want _some_ good to come oat of this whole mess, eh?” He grins. “Noa get cleaned up an' go check on yer magic man.”

“. . .thank you, Woodie. Sincerely.”

“Just save me a weddin' invite, eh?”

“ _Stars and atoms._ ” Wilson rubs his forehead, but he’s smiling. “All of you, I swear.”

“Friend Wilsön! I have retur—höw is the blööd _everywhere_ nöw!?”

“Because I am physically incapable of touching my face, apparently.”

Wigfrid stares at him, lips pursed as if in thought. “Hm. I wörry aböut yöu sömetimes, Wilsön.”

“What if I said I was wearing the blood of my sister-in-arms, Willow the Inflammable, to honor her sacrifice?”

“Then I wöuld be even _möre_ cöncerned in regards tö yöur mental state.” She gives him a wry grin. “And yöur apparent desire tö bestöw smööches upön a rögue magician under Löki's influence is beyönd wörrisöme as it is.”

Wilson is so emotionally drained after this cluster of a morning that he can’t even bring himself to be upset anymore. “Willow told you that, did she.”

“Willow told _everyone_ that,” Woodie adds. “Sorey, buddy.”

“For the record,” Wilson begins to wash himself off with the soap and water, “I'm beyond livid over that little stunt he pulled, don’t get me wrong. But by the same token. . .try not to hold this against him _too_ much, yeah? I didn’t really get a chance to mention this in all the _excitement,_ but the reason Maxwell went off the deep end first thing this morning was because Her Majesty left us another little nastygram during the night.”

 _“No.”_ Woodie stands. “It must’ve been worse than the last one! What'd it say?”

“Some deeply personal insults that aren’t my place to repeat, but I will say that the phrase ‘cheap parlor tricks' made an appearance in reference to his powers.”

Wigfrid raises a hand to her mouth in horror, and Woodie mirrors the gesture with a hoof.

“So yer sayin' she hit him right where it hurts the most—his big, fat ego _. Man._ I never thought I'd actually feel _bad_ for the big hoser.”

Wigfrid's expression slowly changes from bewilderment to one of more simple confusion. “Did yöu say ‘us?’”

“Pardon?”

“‘Us. Left _us_ anöther little nastygram.’ Is that nöt what yöu said?”

Wilson opens his mouth, then closes it. “. . .Yes. The note was to both of us.” He starts scrubbing at his hair. “I was doing some research on the extent of Maxwell and Charlie’s relationship last night, and—”

“Ööööh, Wilsön! Dö nöt tell me yöu are _jealous!_ ”

He’s sure his face is bright red, now. “What!? No! That’s not—don’t interrupt!”

Wigfrid raises her hands. “Sörry, sörry! Cöntinue.”

“So _anyway,_ I was _researching_ —"

“By ‘research,’ ya don’t mean snoopin' through Maxwell’s things, do ya?”

Wilson glares at Woodie. “What did I _just_ say.”

“Look, I'm just sayin'—okay, okay, sorey, I'll shut up.”

“Research. Charlie. She wasn’t happy. Said she’d ‘pluck my eyes from my pretty little head' if I did it again, and told me to watch my back.”

Wigfrid and Woodie look. . . _very_ uneasy.

“. . .so, what did you find oat?”

“. . .I hate to be so cryptic, but again, I don’t think it’s my place to lay bare Maxwell’s entire past. I will say they had a friendly working relationship, and ultimately she was just a sweet young lady who got in over her head by associating with an inexperienced magician who had no idea what he was messing with.”

Wilson squeezes his hair dry and stands. “I also suspect she isn’t thrilled with me for freeing Maxwell in the first place. And I think she’s trying to manipulate us both into destroying each other in the worst way she can think of.”

Wigfrid’s brow creases. “Yöu mean. . .”

Wilson pauses a moment, looking up at the gray sky.

_"Yet each man kills the thing he loves,_

_by each let this be heard,_

_Some do it with a bitter look,_

_some with a flattering word._

_The coward does it with a kiss,_

_the brave man with a sword._

. . .If you'll excuse me.”

Woodie and Wigfrid watch the scientist depart for the Lean-To.

“. . .well, shucks. Noa I feel bad for teasin' him.”

“I am still. . .uncertain as tö höw I feel aböut Maxwell. But I want öur scientist tö be happy.”

“I do, too. Wilson was makin' progress with gettin' him to warm up t’everybody until Ţ̴̘̬̐͘͜ȟ̶̨̡̡̯͔̤̺̯̝̹̞̀̏̐̄̏͗̓̒̂̚̕e̴̡̺̤̜̰͇̩̣͕͓̅͒̍̐̌͗m̷̧̛̛̥̰̫̭̳̣̮͓̥̬͆̓̀̈͗͑͊̿̚͝͝ and the Queen and kept ruinin' everything. One step forward, two steps back, eh?” Woodie frowns. “I think he can still do it, though. But that’s not the part that worries me.

. . .It’s that it might do to him what it did to Charlie.”

□■□■□■□■

“Welcome back.”

The first thing Maxwell is aware of is how flat and downright _unfriendly_ that greeting sounds. This wasn’t his usual sour grapes or playing up annoyance for effect—there was not a hint of Higgsbury's usual warmth in his voice.

“What happened? My head is _killing_ me.”

“Not as bad as Willow’s. She needed fifteen stitches after one of your Shadow Hands was through with her.”

“. . .is she awake?”

“No.”

Maxwell chances a look at the scientist. He sits between both his and Willow’s cots, reading some sort of book of Wickerbottom’s.

“I feel as if I've been trampled by some great beast.”

“You were. The only reason you’re alive is because I told Woodie not to make more work for me.”

“. . .how gracious.”

The only response is the faint rustle of a page being turned.

“I assume you’re expecting an apology.”

“I'm not holding my breath.”

Maxwell manages to sit up, albeit with difficulty. “This started because you went rifling through my possessions after knocking me unconscious. If anyone is to blame for the firestarter’s current state, it’s the scientist incapable of minding his own goddamn business.”

“We need to know all we can about Charlie if we want to survive whatever she's cooking up for us, and you’ve been less than helpful. So I took the initiative.” Wilson snaps the book shut. “I don’t regret what I did. It was for the good of the camp.” Okay, that wasn't _entirely_ true, but Maxwell didn’t need to know that. “But. . .”

His voice actually softens somewhat, and Maxwell regards him with a curious quirk of the brow.

“. . .I'm sorry you saw the note. You weren't supposed to.”

“. . .yes, well.”

The two men fall silent.

“. . .I. . .apologize for injuring Ms. Willow so severely. She has her moments, but she. . .she was only trying to save you.” Maxwell carefully gets up from his cot, his bones creaking in protest. “ _Nngh._ Have you another chair? I'll wait with you.”

“Yes. One moment.” Higgsbury leaves the shelter, the book tucked under his arm.

Maxwell waits until he’s sure Wilson is gone and leans over the other cot, tentatively resting a cool, gloved hand on Willow’s forehead.

“. . .I feel I have been treating you unfairly this entire time, Ms. Willow,” he murmurs quietly. “For that, I apologize. I suppose I am, perhaps. . .simply envious of the closeness you and Higgsbury share. My old partner-in-crime, she. . .well. I suppose everyone knows after last night.

. . .I do not deserve forgiveness, but I hope you will forgive me one day. If for nothing else I have done, then at least for this. But I will make it up to you. You have my word as a magician. For whatever that is worth.”

Wilson hesitates outside. Damn it all, how was he supposed to stay angry at Maxwell when he had to go and say a thing like that? And while sounding so uncharacteristically _sincere,_ to boot? The man needed to stop playing with his heart like this. Wilson was feeling frazzled enough already. And it was only just barely noon.

“I'm back.”

Maxwell draws back from Willow before Wilson can see. The scientist renters and sets down another chair beside the first. Then he hands Maxwell two raw Blue Caps and a cup of water.

“. . .Ms. Willows needs these more than I do.”

 _You **really** gotta tug on my heartstrings today, don’t you. _“I have extra for her. These are for you.”

“Then I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth, then. Thank you.” He pops one odd, gooey mushroom into his mouth all at once, and pulls the most disgusted face as he struggles to chew it.

“Yeah, they’re pretty delicious, aren’t they.”

“The blue ones have. . .” Chew chew. “A delicate umami flavour. That only one with such a refined palate,” chew chew chew, “can truly appreciate.” He finally swallows it with a gasp and a repulsed shudder. “And the consistency of a half-melted rubber ball.”

Wilson looks amused. “I think it’s got the consistency of a blob of sticky tar, myself.”

“And you’ve chewed on tar before, I presume?”

“You bet.”

“For science?”

“Absolutely.”

Maxwell snorts. “I often wondered how you'd managed to survive this long with what is either a dangerous oral fixation or an equally-dangerous ‘scientific curiosity.’”

“I was just following the rules you laid out. ‘BeTtEr FiNd SoMeThInG tO eAt BeFoRe NiGhT cOmEs.’”

“I do _not_ sound like that.”

“‘SaY pAl, YoU dOn'T lOok So GoOd.’”

“This is an outrage.” Maxwell can’t hide his smile as he pops the second mushroom into his mouth. “I'm outraged. How dare you.”

“‘SaY pAl, LoOkS lIkE yOu'Re HaViNg SoMe TrOuBlE.’”

“’M going to give you some trouble in a second.”

“‘I hAvE sEcReT kNoWlEdGe I cAn ShArE wItH yOu, If YoU wAnT tO tOtaLlY rUiN yOuR lIfE.’”

“I don’t recall _that_ part.”

“‘YoU dOn'T gEt a ReFuNd BeCaUsE mY nAmE iS mAxWeLl AnD i'M a BiG oLd LiMeY fRuItCaKe.’”

Maxwell chokes on the mushroom, but is laughing once he swallows. “I'm a _what?_ ”

“‘My NaMe Is MaXwElL aNd AhM a Wot?’”

“Aren’t we cheeky today.” Maxwell grins, giving Wilson’s nose a firm tweak.

“Ow! Leggo my dose! I need dat!”

“‘My name is Wilson Percival Higgsbury and I enjoy sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.’”

“Ow, ow! Okay! I'b sorry!”

“‘My name is Wilson Percival Higgsbury and ‘scientific curiosity' is just what I call rummaging through other people’s personal effects.’”

“Okay, okay! You made your poid, I'b sorry!”

Maxwell releases him, still grinning. “Apology accepted.”

Wilson scowls, rubbing his nose. “That hurt.”

“ _Mon pauvre._ Shall I kiss it and make it better?”

“. . .Wait, what?”

Maxwell leans in and plants a kiss right on his nose, as promised. His lips linger just a second too long, still ghosting over the skin even as he pulls away.

Wilson covers his nose with his hands and stares in complete disbelief. His face goes from the same shade of his waistcoat to a dusky purple.

“. . .I spy with my little eye,” comes a hoarse, strained murmur from the cot in front of them, “a beet-red science nerd and his sassy old magician boyfriend who is overdue for an ass-kicking.”

 _“Willow! Oh, thank the stars—!”_ All the frustration, anger, worry, and grief he thought his fatigue had long since overridden comes to a sudden head, and the scientist bursts into a bout of ugly, undignified sobbing.

“Whoa! Oh, jeez, Wilson, don’t cry! You'll—” She tries to sit up and gives a thin groan of pain.

“Don’t move, Ms. Willow. You sustained some rather nasty injuries.” Maxwell rises to his feet. “One moment. I'll fetch Warly and Wickerbottom and we'll make you something to help take the edge off.” Her increasing awareness of the extent of her injuries and the pain that accompanies them hazes her vision, but she’s sure she catches Maxwell rubbing Wilson’s back as he passes.

Then the two are left alone.

 _“I-I’m s-so sorry, Willow!”_ Wilson wails between great hitching sobs, burying his face in her chest. _“T-This i-is all my fault! I'm s-so sorry!”_

“What're you talking about, dummy?” She laughs weakly, and raises a trembling hand to pet his hair. “You weren’t the one who cracked my head open.”

_“I-I w-went d-digging t-through Mmmaxwell's past a-and C-Charlie g-got mmmad a-and she l-left him a-another n-note and h-he went crazy a-and—”_

_“Wilson.”_

Wilson meekly raises his head, shaking violently with the barely-suppressed sobs he is trying so desperately to quell.

_“Breathe.”_

He closes his eyes and sucks in several deep, shaky breaths. Willow lightly scratches his scalp to further soothe him, and eventually his sharp, painful gasps turn to hiccups and miserable sniffles.

“Better?”

He nods.

“Okay. Start from the top.”

Warly, Wickerbottom, and Maxwell enter the shelter just as Wilson is finishing up his explanation of events.

“ _Mon dieu,_ Wilson!” Warly sets down the bowls of soup in his hands and immediately fusses over the scientist, fishing out the handkerchief Wilson had lent him the previous day to wipe his face.

“Ack! W-Warly—!”

“Oh, just let him. You’re absolutely _covered_ in snot, you big baby.” She looks at the cups of tea Wickerbottom and Maxwell are holding. “What’s that stuff?”

“The aptly-named Soothing Tea. A little something Mr. Warly, Mr. Maxwell, and I worked on together for soothing the nerves. I think it best the three of you all had a cup.”

“I don’t think either Higgsbury or I can pass up a good cup of tea. That and I'm interested to see how well it lives up to the name. I haven’t had the opportunity to really sample any, yet.” Maxwell extends a hand. “Do you think you can sit up, Ms. Willow?”

“If I'm careful, I think.” But she stares at Maxwell’s proffered hand. “Take your glove off.”

Maxwell blinks. “I. . .beg your pardon?”

“Take your glove off. If you’re really as sorry as you say, you'll do it.”

“. . .you heard that, did you.”

“I did. What’s wrong? Can’t bring yourself to touch a filthy commoner?”

“No, that’s. . .that’s not. . .”

“I know about the claws. I wanna see them. Take your glove off.”

Maxwell hesitates, but he eventually complies. Both Warly and Wickerbottom’s eyes widen at the sight, and Maxwell extends his hand once more. This time, Willow takes it.

“Wow, your hands are cold. But Wilson was right. They _are_ really cool-looking.” She grins at Wilson, who blushes. “I bet you can give _really_ good head-scritches with those.”

A mischievous smile tugs at Maxwell’s lips in spite of himself, and he shoots the already-flustered Wilson a sidelong, quirked-browed glance. “Would you care for a brief demonstration, Ms. Willow?”

“Yes, Maxwell. Yes I would.”

“H-Hey! D-Don't you even. . .think. . .about. . .”

Willow laughs. “Oh, man. Poor Wilson melted like butter in _seconds._ Those must be some _primo_ scalp-scritches right there.”

“I cannot help but feel I am intruding on something,” Warly whispers to Wickerbottom, and the old librarian simply grins.

“Err. . .when you two are finished tormenting the scientist, I made some Bone Bouillon. Nothing is quite as good for the soul like soup, I always say.”

“Oh, hell yeah! Everything you make is amazing, Warly. I can’t wait to INHALE it.”

“Nnnot. . .too fast.” Wilson is _really_ struggling under those claws. “Mmmake yourself. . .sick.”

Maxwell finally stops, and Wilson shakes his head to clear it. “Ugh. You both just _live_ to torture me, don’t you.”

“Yes,” Willow and Maxwell answer in unison, much to Warly and Wickerbottom’s amusement (and Wilson’s lack thereof).

Warly hands Wilson and Maxwell each a bowl, which they both eat with gusto. Neither of the men had realized how hungry they were until faced with Warly’s irresistible cuisine.

Warly thankfully assists Willow with eating her soup, much to Wilson’s chagrin. He had been so focused on himself that he hadn’t considered Willow. But she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Thank you, Warly, that was AMAZING. I'm feeling better already!”

“ _Magnifique!_ Maxwell suggested steeping the Blue Caps Wilson had for you in the broth, and I sliced them down very finely so they’d be easier to chew.”

“Oh, wow! I didn’t even notice they were in there! Your cooking is like magic.”

“No _bones_ about it, this is the best soup I've ever had,” Wilson quips. “Warly’s as good a cook as I am a scientist.”

“Don’t you insult the man’s cooking like that, Higgsbury.”

Warly laughs, and Wickerbottom shakes her head. “Your tea, gentlemen. And for you, Willow.”

“Huh. Looks like regular old leaf juice to me. But I guess it can’t hurt.” She takes a sip. “. . .oh, wow. This is actually pretty tasty. Sweet, but not _too_ sweet. Kinda floral.”

“We used a certain edible flower that recently started growing around here,” Maxwell explains as he nurses his own tea. “It’s a bit like chamomile.”

“Wait, how did you know it was edible?”

Maxwell points to the man beside him. And the man beside him points to himself.

“. . .you know, I _really_ should have guessed.”

“I didn’t know it was going to be for tea, though. I was wondering why you all were asking me about it.”

“. . .Now that everyone is all settled down. . .I would like to have a conversation about the events of this morning.”

Wilson and Maxwell both pale—an accomplishment, given their complexions—and sink slightly behind their teacups. No one has ever seen Maxwell look so guilty before.

“It was my fault,” Wilson pipes up, and Maxwell looks over at him, startled. “I wanted to know more about Charlie, and. . .invaded Maxwell’s privacy. Charlie was displeased about me digging into her past, and left me a warning which included some particularly venomous things about her old boss. And I accidentally left it where Maxwell could see it.”

“No, I am to blame, here.” Now it’s Wilson’s turn to look surprised. “I should have handled her rejection with much more decorum, but I let her bait me and completely lost my head. I fell for the oldest trick in the book and should have known better.”

“You were still really rattled from last night, though. I don’t think anyone can really blame you for that. I mean, _I_ sure can’t. Yeah, everybody’s pretty mad about Willow, myself included, but I let Ţ̴̘̬̐͘͜ȟ̶̨̡̡̯͔̤̺̯̝̹̞̀̏̐̄̏͗̓̒̂̚̕e̴̡̺̤̜̰͇̩̣͕͓̅͒̍̐̌͗m̷̧̛̛̥̰̫̭̳̣̮͓̥̬͆̓̀̈͗͑͊̿̚͝͝ get in my head the other day. So where would I get off, being mad about _that?_ ” Wilson looks down. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you, Maxwell, but. . .she showed me your old study, as well as your last performance.”

“‘. . .Showed you?’ Like in a vision?”

“Yes. Well, the study was a vision. The performance was a dream after the fact. So I don’t really know if it was her or Ţ̴̘̬̐͘͜ȟ̶̨̡̡̯͔̤̺̯̝̹̞̀̏̐̄̏͗̓̒̂̚̕e̴̡̺̤̜̰͇̩̣͕͓̅͒̍̐̌͗m̷̧̛̛̥̰̫̭̳̣̮͓̥̬͆̓̀̈͗͑͊̿̚͝͝. I was trying to figure out why she’d bother to show me these things after explicitly threatening to gouge out my eyes—”

“Uh, maybe because she’s a passive-aggressive _bitch_ who's trying to mindfuck both of you?”

Wilson and Maxwell both stare at Willow.

“. . .that thought crossed my mind, yes, but I think there’s something else. I suspect she’s not happy I freed Maxwell from his eternal suffering, which she undoubtedly believes he deserves based on what she—or T̶̡̯͚̭͙͕̘̗̀̓h̵̨̢̼͓͑̈͆̓̽̂̿̿̕ę̶̨̭̘̜̦̻͗̈́͐̈́̃̎́ẏ̶̺͐̐͜͝—deigned to show me. Even if she did wind up getting the Throne in the end.”

“So if I am following your line of thinking correctly, Mr. Higgsbury,” Wickerbottom starts, “this can all be summed up by ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ And now she wants to make you both suffer as she did, in the most deeply personal and soul-crushing ways imaginable.”

“. . .and the rest of the Survivors be damned, yes.”

“. . .what a bitch.”

Maxwell winces.

“I. . .don’t think she’s all bad, Willow. Or at least, not until recently. She seemed like a nice enough lady when she freed me, just wrestling with some inner demons. Or outer demons?” Wilson scratches his head. “But after her transformation when she ascended the Throne. . .I don’t think the old Charlie is _ever_ coming back. I. . .I'm sorry, Maxwell.”

Maxwell shakes his head, but says nothing for a moment.

“. . .William Carter died a long time ago. I suppose it makes sense that Charlie did, too.”

In spite of their audience, Wilson reaches over and takes Maxwell’s ungloved claw in his own hand. The magician initially moves to resist, but decides to allow it.

“. . .So. . .now what do we do?”

“I believe that is up to you, Ms. Willow. It seems only fair that you are the one to decide a suitable punishment for Maxwell. The Puppet Master getting a taste of his own medicine does not excuse him lashing out at other members of the camp.” Wickerbottom adjusts her spectacles. “I explicitly told both he and Mr. Higgsbury that I would turn a blind eye to their antics involving each other, but I cannot abide by harming another innocent Survivor. I _will not_ abide by it.”

Wilson opens his mouth to protest, but Maxwell stops him. “No, she’s. . .Wickerbottom is right. It sets a dangerous precedent.”

_Even a king is bound to the board._

“I said I would make it up to you. I swore on my word as a magician. So to prove my sincerity, I will break the Magician’s Code.”

Warly, Wickerbottom, Wilson, and Willow all gape at him.

_“What?”_

_“What?”_

_“What?”_

_“WHAT. **No.** You’re shitting me.”_

“I assure you, I am not.” Maxwell is resolute in his decision. “Higgsbury knows this, but I once traveled with a circus, albeit briefly. And in my time there I picked up a few things. Performance skills that do not require the Codex. So I will teach you the secret to the most dangerous trick I know, as well as how to perform it.”

_“What!?”_

_“What!?”_

_“WHAT!? Are you **insane!?** I just put fifteen stitches in her head!”_

Willow rubs her chin. “Alright, old man. I'm listening.”

Maxwell leans over to whisper something in her ear, shielding his mouth with his free hand. Willow’s eyes light up.

_“No fucking way.”_

“Yes fucking way.”

“This isn’t a prank? You mean it?”

“I mean it. I am one hundred percent serious when it comes to magic.”

The magician gently frees his ungloved hand from the scientist’s grasp and extends it to the injured firestarter, who is all but vibrating with delight. _Like an electron,_ Wilson thinks.

“What do you say?”

“I say,” Willow grins, grabbing his clawed hand and giving it a firm shake. “It’s a deal. _Pal._ ”

Wilson holds his head in his hands. “Please, please, _please_ don’t make me regret stopping Woodie from trampling you to death.”

“Aww, damn, I missed a Weremoose attack? Lame!”

Maxwell starts when Willow, still holding his hand, tugs him forward. “ _Say, pal._ I just thought of one more thing.”

Maxwell raises an eyebrow. “I don’t like that fire in your eyes, my dear arsonist, but I'll bite. Name it and it’s yours.”

“I want a kiss.”

It's Wilson that spits out his tea this time.

Maxwell looks amused. “Is that all? I suppose that can be arranged.”

“Not me, though. _Him._ ”

That wipes Maxwell’s smirk right off his face.

“I want to see a magician and a scientist give in to their obvious weird hate-lust for each other and make beautiful alchemy together.”

“. . .right. I think you need more rest.”

“Oh, no you don’t. You said ‘name it and it’s yours.’ Well, consider it named, _pal._ I want to see how _magical_ The Great Maxwell’s smooches are.”

Maxwell looks to Warly and Wickerbottom as if silently begging for either of them to intervene.

“ _Je regrette,_ but you are on your own for this one.”

“You _did_ tell her to name her price.”

Maxwell snatches his hand away, then folds them both in his lap. He hunches forward slightly in his seat, head bowed. Trying desperately to will away the heretofore unseen shade of vermillion he must be spurting. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Higgsbury isn’t faring much better.

“. . .After making so many deals over the years. . .I suppose I deserve this.

. . .May we. . .have some privacy, please?”

Wickerbottom and Warly turn to leave, but Willow stops them. “Ah, ah, ah. They have to stay. It’s part of your punishment. Be glad I didn’t invite the whole camp. But don’t worry. They'll hear _all about it_ later.”

Maxwell sets his jaw. Willow doesn’t know if he's about to cry or completely lose his temper, but it’s _amazing._

“. . .A kiss, then.”

“Just one. Then all is forgiven. But make it a _good_ one. Use all that patented Maxwell showmanship. Give us the ol' _razzle-dazzle._ ” Willow makes jazz hands for emphasis. “Basically what I'm saying is I _better_ see tongue.”

“. . .have women _always_ been so cruel?”

“Oh, quit bellyaching and give my main man a big ol' smooch on his stupid sciencey mouth. Because _you owe me._ ”

Maxwell inhales sharply. And exhales. And finally raises his head.

“. . .Higgsbury.”

Wilson, frozen in place and silent up until this point, nearly drops his teacup. “Y-Y-Y-Yes?”

“. . .you heard the woman.”

Maxwell takes the teacup from Wilson’s shaking hands and sets it on the empty cot beside his own.

Then he stands.

“Stand, if you will.”

“O-O-Okay.” Wilson unsteadily rises to his feet, looking not unlike a newborn Beefalo using its legs for the first time.

And then Maxwell seizes him, supporting him around the lower back and cupping the back of his head, and initiates a deep, passionate kiss with a dramatic dip nearly to the floor.

Wilson, meanwhile, clutches the front of Maxwell’s suit for dear life, and kind of. . .hooks his knee over Maxwell’s hip for balance.

Warly, Wickerbottom, and Willow can only stare in slack-jawed awe, their mouths hanging open widely enough to catch a Dragonfly each. Willow in particular is astonished that Maxwell had followed her instructions to the letter, right down to the copious amounts of _tongue._

“There.” Maxwell finally breaks the kiss, face flushed and hair mussed, and clears his throat. “I hope that catered to your expectations.”

 _“Whew, boy!”_ Willow makes a show of fanning herself. “Maxwell, you dog! That was so scorching hot I thought I'd catch fire from the heat of your passion!” She applauds. “Bravo, gentlemen! A plus! Ten out of ten! Five stars! I am sufficiently razzled AND dazzled!”

“. . .I am nothing if not a showman, I suppose.” He narrows his eyes at Willow. “Never let it be said that I don’t take _all_ aspects of my craft _very_ seriously.”

“Never. I will _never_ doubt your word as a magician, or your razzle OR your dazzle, ever again. Scout's honor.”

Maxwell tries to set Wilson back on his feet, but the scientist’s eyes roll back in his head and he just sort of. . .faints.

“. . .oh my.” Warly looks over at the unconscious Higgsbury. “That must have been a _really_ good kiss.”

“I see you've broken our scientist yet again, Mr. Carter.”

“From being _too good_ at kissing. Holy crap, I think I can finally die happy in this stupid world.”

“You know, _Mademoiselle_ Willow, I do believe _Madame_ Wickerbottom and I share your sentiment.” Warly easily lifts the unconscious Wilson as if he were a sack of produce and sets him on the cot Maxwell was using earlier. “And given that silly smile he’s wearing, I believe _Monsieur_ Wilson does, too.”

And while Maxwell doesn’t say it—much less show it—he thinks he just might be able to, as well.


	7. Overloaded, Overextended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They're whispering through the core of my mind...!"  
> \--Maxwell during Ghost sanity drain, _Don’t Starve Together_  
>  “My humanity is about to start slipping away…”  
> \--Wilson during Ghost sanity drain, _Don’t Starve Together_
> 
> “Just what are you up to now, Charlie?"  
> \-- _unimplemented Maxwell dialogue_
> 
> “Remind me not to get on Willow's bad side."  
> \--Wilson on BERNIE!, _Don’t Starve Together_
> 
> "I AM A BIRD!"  
> \--Wilson inspecting a Feather Hat, _Don’t Starve_  
>  “I always considered myself the peacock of people."  
> \--Maxwell inspecting a Feather Hat, _Don’t Starve Together_
> 
> “Awww, she has a cute little bow."  
> \--Wilson on Abigail, even though he’s fucking blind apparently 
> 
> "I told you people, I am *not* a vampire!"  
> \--Maxwell inspecting a Broken Stake, _Hallowed Nights_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _You seem darker than the night  
>  You are older than the light  
> You were made to be invisible  
> You have no body, no face_  
>    
> _And nightmarish, you hide yourself  
>  Since forever. . ._
> 
> _You urge, deceive the spirit  
>  You enlighten my mind  
> You seduce and you desecrate  
> You are cold and burnt out long ago  
>   
> And inwardly, you warm me  
> Since forever  
>   
> You appear in my dreams  
> You caress my black heart  
> You give light to the tree of life  
> You freed me from the pain  
>   
> And actually, you terrify me  
> Since forever_
> 
> _But without you, I don't exist  
>  Since forever_
> 
> \-- ~~Maxwell singing to his fucking book, probably~~  
>  E Nomine - _Schwarze Sonne_  
>  I stole my Latin because I am a talentless hack fraud. It was perfect, though. **Make sure you listen to this first before reading, it’s important.** I wouldn’t lie to you.  
> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=gh904-3BLa0  
>  **Or, have a nifty-keen remix with just the Latin.** I triple-checked the translation, so it SHOULD be correct. Mostly.  
>  **If nothing else, listen to the female vocalist in the beginning and tell me who you thought of. I want to see if you guys came to the same conclusion I did.**  
>  https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Umk4w89t5M0
> 
> Maxwell would have a three-headed Varg named Cerberus as a pet, Y/Y  
> □■□■□■□■  
> No smut this time you fucking degenerates, but it will come. Pun 100% intended. But first, another 40 pages of exposition while I wonder where I went so wrong in my life  
> ❤ u 💋s mwah xoxo

“—ate tö disturb him, he looks sö happy.”

“—yeah, but noa we got another one, an' nobody knows what to do aboat it, eh?”

Wilson slowly opens his eyes, and a great giant velveteen moose muzzle snorts in his face.

_“Waugh!”_

He tumbles off the cot and back on to the ground. “Oof!”

“Whoa! Sorey, bud, didn’t mean to startle you!” Woodie takes the collar of the facedown Wilson’s shirt in his teeth and pulls him to his feet. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your little nap, either, but we got a problem.”

“Oh, stars, what is it _this_ time.” Wilson scowls, disdainfully dusting off his clothing and readjusting his collar. “Someone better not be dead. Or _better_ be dead. I’m too groggy to decide which one I'd prefer yet.”

“No one’s dead, but there might be trouble if Maxwell keeps trying to interrogate our new guest.”

Wilson claps an exasperated hand to his face. “Fantastic. But I guess we all knew this was coming. Let me go run interference for my ‘beau’— _waugh!_ ”

Woodie scoops up Wilson in his antlers and tosses him over his back, where Wigfrid is already there to intercept him. “Grasp tightly tö me, my ally! We are tö ride the jötunn intö the fray! Because it is faster than walking! And I have heard rumblings öf a certain silver-töngued sööthsayer's smöldering smööches leaving yöu weak in the knees!”

“Wonderful, Willow got to you. But please, shout that to the entire—aaaAaaaAAAUGH!”

Woodie takes off for the Postern at a gallop, and Wilson clutches desperately at Wigfrid’s armor to keep from falling. He pitches forward into her when the Weremoose screeches to a halt, pulling up clumps of grass and soil as he digs his hooves into the ground.

And then Wilson actually _does_ slide right off.

“Hail, haranguing haruspex! I cöme bearing the, uh. . .” Wigfrid checks behind her, then at the ground where the scientist lies facedown yet again. He is almost certain this has been twice in as many minutes.

“. . .Wilsön, this is nö time för anöther nap.”

“Tch.” Wilson can hear an-all-too familiar derisive click of the tongue, and the ground falls away as he’s lifted into the air by the back of his waistcoat. “Can you stand?”

“Yes. Though I'm admittedly none too pleased about all the manhandling I seem to be on the receiving end of today.” He looks up and gives Maxwell a winsome grin. “But I'll make an exception, just for you.”

Maxwell unceremoniously drops him with a disgusted noise.

“Ow! Okay, message received.” Wilson gets back to his feet and dusts himself off. “Who's the newcomer?”

_“The mime.”_

“. . .the _what?_ ” Wilson squints. “Wait a minute. . .”

Wilson pushes through the crowd of other Survivors that have gathered and finds a thin, meek-looking man caked in white pancake makeup and with painted lips and cheeks, shivering and recoiling from the onlookers. He hugs himself, eyes wide with fright, even as Warly attempts to gently communicate with him in French.

“《Oh, Wilson! 》” Warly looks relieved. “《Am I ever glad to see you, my friend! Perhaps you can help? It seems our newest addition got spooked by Maxwell and now is refusing to. . .well, normally I’d say ‘speak,’ but. . . 》”

“《I can try. 》” Wilson takes a careful step forward and clears his throat. “《Ahem, excuse me. I believe we may have actually met? 》”

The mime turns to Wilson, and his eyes somehow widen further—but this time with recognition.

“《Yes, now I remember! When I went to confront Maxwell, you were trapped by his chess automatons! But you passed out and vanished before I could. . .》”

The crowd parts as Maxwell furiously shoves his way through. “《That was _you_ who freed him!?》”

The mime flinches and shields himself with his arms.

“《Will you quit yelling, you maniac? See, look! You’re making everything worse! 》” He pushes Maxwell off to the side. “《Now go on, shoo, shoo! Let me handle this. 》”

“《Be my guest, 》” Maxwell sneers, conjuring up a cigar. “《But we _will_ have a discussion about this later. 》”

“《Gee, Maxwell, don’t threaten me with a good time. 》”

Both Maxwell and Warly choke, but Wilson finds himself emboldened by the former's reaction. He shoots the magician a vicious grin. “《Is it going to be an _angry_ discussion or a _sexy_ discussion? Personally, with the kind of day I've been having, I'm in the mood for a bit of both. 》”

 _“_ _《_ _You—!_ _》_ _”_ Maxwell storms back over, seizing Wilson by the front of his waistcoat. His high cheekbones are stained with color as if he had stolen the mime's rouge, and he has completely bitten through his cigar. _“_ _《_ _I am **not** having this discussion right here, right now. And I **refuse** to let you humiliate me in front of this, this— **clown!** __》_ _”_

“《Well, maybe you should shut me up, then, 》” the scientist’s eyes glint with mischief as he plucks the remains of Maxwell’s ruined cigar from his lips and tosses it over his shoulder, _“mon vieux.”_

Wilson doesn’t give Maxwell a chance to react before grabbing either side of his face and pulling him into an ardent kiss.

Maxwell is completely frozen, just as Wilson had been during Willow’s “punishment.” But his lips are still butter-soft and give with the slightest pressure, and that sweet, serpentine tongue twitches as the scientist’s own curls around it, despite how hard Maxwell is struggling to endure the temptation.

It's the cry of “heck yeah, Wilson, you show that jerk who wears the pants!” from somewhere in the crowd that pulls him back to reality. But he takes a chance and breaks the kiss slowly, fixing Maxwell with a languid look of satisfaction and licking his lips for effect.

And his gambit yields the desired result. Maxwell's ~~Adam’s apple~~ laryngeal prominence bobs in his throat as he swallows hard. He is too galvanized to be a furious magician.

For now.

Wilson turns back to the mime, who looks equally as stunned. After a moment, he questioningly tilts his head to the side, and forms a heart with his hands.

“Ah!” Wilson excitedly releases Maxwell, as if something had just occurred to him. To the continued amazement of the other Survivors, he begins to sign as he speaks. “Do you know sign language!?”

The mime brightens and nods enthusiastically.

“And you understand English as well?”

Another happy nod.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but can you hear?”

The mime signs something back. Warly looks at Wilson expectantly. “What did he say?”

“‘Sort of, have trouble but can read lips. Sick a lot as a child.’” Wilson nods before signing again. “My name is Wilson. I'm a scientist and the camp doctor. Are you hurt?”

The man shakes his head.

“Will you let me take a look later, just to check?”

A nod, then more signing. Wilson laughs.

“‘My name is Wes, you can guess what I am.’ Okay, Wes. This right here is my friend Warly. He's a professional chef and can make _anything_ taste delicious. Do you have a favorite food?” Wilson waits for the response, then nods. “‘Fresh Fruit Crepes,’ he says. Can you make those?”

“ _Absolutement!_ I was a French chef, Wilson!”

Wilson laughs. “Right, okay, sorry! I didn’t want to make assumptions!” He turns back to Wes. “If you come with me I can introduce you to my other friends. How does that sound?” _Oh, oops. Probably shouldn’t say “sound.”_

Wes nods, but then casts a hesitant glance at Maxwell.

“Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s a pussycat, not a danger to anyone anymore.” Though he still signs to Wes, he turns his head to fix Maxwell with a tight smile.

**_“I̷̝̹̹̫̹͎̋̌̈́͛͠ş̸̞̗̯̣́͊̑͒̐̕n̶̙͔̽̃͐̑’̷̗̓̇͝t̸̄́͜͝ ̷͚̖̿́̔̓͝ṱ̵̛͉̃̊ĥ̶̙̹̗̣̝̎ą̶̛͖͇̐̑̍͘͘t̴̡͉̪͂͠ ̵̤̰̓͘r̶̬̜̅ĩ̷̧̭̻̈́͌͒g̶̛͎̯͈̤̗̈́̄͝h̴̨͚͐̄ţ̵̛̯͚̅̆?̴̥̺̺̱͇̰̈”_ **

Maxwell takes a step back. “Err, yes. Quite.”

“See?” Wilson beams at Wes. “You can always trust me to be right, I'm a scientist. Now— _oof!_ ”

A weight comes flying at Wilson from the front, and it takes him several staggered steps backwards to realize Wes has lept into his arms. The mime glares over at Maxwell, jabbing two fingers at his eyes before menacingly returning the gesture in the magician’s direction. Then he signs something threateningly to him. Wilson’s brow creases, and he surprisingly does not jump in to translate.

“. . .Well, Higgsbury? What does our new friend have to tell me so vehemently?”

Wilson hesitates.

“‘. . .Wilson is too nice. You don’t deserve him.’”

Another furious flurry of signing.

“‘. . .talentless hack magician.’”

Wes folds his arms and scornfully turns up his nose.

“. . .man, the clown's got balls,” Willow remarks. “And I don’t mean the juggling kind.”

Maxwell’s jaw tightens and his fists clench at his sides as his expression turns from dumbstruck to livid. Like watching a whistling kettle come to a rolling boil. But he says nothing. Instead, silently seething, he disappears through the earth as yet another magic portal opens up beneath him, leaving behind nothing but (what appears to be) smoke. Wilson swears he hears thunder rumble in the distance, as if on cue.

“Gotta say, that’s becoming my new favorite magic trick of his.” Willow walks over and slaps the mime on the back, who jumps at the contact. “Nice to meetcha, Wes. I'm Willow. I think we’re gonna get along just fine.”

□■□■□■□■

True to his word, Wilson introduces Wes to each Survivor, interpreting as needed. But Wes, who takes his chosen craft just as seriously as Maxwell, prefers to communicate with the others almost exclusively through pantomime. The others seem endlessly amused by this, but Wilson would prefer he just state his business plain and allow him to get on with all the other things he has yet to do today. Like science. And Maxwell.

. . .he's a little ashamed with himself that all it took was a grand total of _two whole_ passionate kisses for him to desperately long to engage in sins of the flesh (outside of a single erotic dream)—though he supposes the morning of the Hound attack _kind of_ counted toward that tally, maybe—to the detriment of his actual responsibilities. He had originally blamed his tenuous sanity combined with his general fascination for anatomy and all things strange and scientific for his initial overtures, but now he’s starting to consider the possibility of there having been some sort of unresolved sexual tension between them all along. That the Hounds and the Dark Petals and the tent full of malicious curios had just provided a catalyst to latent desires that had already existed and simply pulled them out of dormancy.

But if there was one thing that Wilson desired more than anything in the world, it was Knowledge. Especially with that oh-so-tantalizing Forbidden modifier preceding it. He knew it, Maxwell knew it, and Ṱ̵̢̢̡̬̩̘͇̜̖̜̹̭͉̄̒͆͐͌̈́̒͌̄̎̉͝ͅh̸̻̬̖̬͗̓͊̒̇͠ë̷̥́͠ỹ̸̢̬̣̯͔͈̓̇̀̂͂̈́̈̎͘ knew it. And to his credit, as much as Wilson had continuously heckled him about it, Maxwell _had_ held up his end of the bargain. But Wilson wasn’t satisfied anymore, not when _every_ Survivor had the potential to construct Science Machines and the like of their own. Secret Knowledge and Forbidden Knowledge had become Common Knowledge, and had thus lost its appeal. He needed something _new,_ something _dangerous,_ something _exciting_ to occupy his steel trap of a scientific mind to keep him sharp.

And what was more _dangerous_ and _exciting_ than discovering what made The Constant's most fearsome occupant tic?

He just hadn’t been expecting his lust for knowledge to give way to lust in the more. . . _traditional_ sense. Even if his dawning tastes were proving to be anything but. (He had never fancied himself a libertine, as much as Maxwell liked to call him a dandy, but now he was seriously beginning to doubt his own previously-professed convictions.)

He'd had a taste—literally _and_ figuratively—of Maxwell’s own brand of Forbidden Knowledge, and now he _needed_ more. One didn’t get much more Forbidden than Maxwell himself, and the implications of that were _intoxicating. Stars,_ the amount of not-quite-gentlemany-but-could-still-be-construed-as-scientific-with-enough-squinting things he was going to do to that man.

_Terrible, beautiful things._

If he'd ever get away, of course.

“Hey!” Willow sharply elbows him in the ribs, hard enough to stagger him. “Pay attention!”

“Ow! I am, I am! I've been paying attention this whole—where did all these balloons come from!?”

Wes is surrounded by a veritable sea of balloon animals, much to the delight of Webber and Abigail, though even Wendy looks fascinated by this. Wes grins and signs something.

“‘I practice. . .‘Balloonomancy’?’ Is. . .is that a thing?” Wilson eyes the balloons suspiciously. “Wait, how are they floating?”

“Uh, duh, Wilson, they’re balloons.”

Wilson scowls. “For your information, oxygen is too dense for balloons to float. They’d have to be filled with a lighter gas, like helium.” He turns back to Wes. “Do you. . . _breathe_ helium?”

Wes shrugs, but Wilson’s eyes light up. “Can I check!?”

Wes looks uncomfortable, holding up his hands and shaking his head.

“No.” Willow thumps Wilson on the top of his head with a fist. “Bad scientist. Bad.”

“Ow! Alright, alright!”

“Heh. Still think he’s too nice, Wes?”

Wes smiles sheepishly and shrugs a second time before signing.

“‘Your friends are a Viking, a moose-goose-beaver, a ghost, and Wilson’s. . . significant other is a. . .megalomaniac. . .mass murderer. ‘We're all a little mad here.’’” Wilson blushes. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?

. . .Nice _Alice in Wonderland_ reference though, Wendy will get a kick out of that.”

_I'd say we're all a mess of oddballs, here. And Maxwell’s screwy world just amplifies the weird in everyone._

“What’s harsh, about Maxwell? I mean, he’s not wrong. Your boyfriend’s got a pretty checkered past—uh, chess-ed past?—even if he’s trying to stay on the straight and narrow.” Willow unconsciously fiddles with her bandage. “Keyword here being ‘trying.’”

“That reminds me, I need to change that for something sturdier. And I'll have to wash your hair. It'll be hard not to get the stitches wet, but. . .”

Willow makes a face. “Ew, water, gross. This is the worst day ever. Remind me to go kick your boyfriend in the shins later.”

Wilson’s flush deepens. “Stop calling him. . .he’s not my. . .err. . .”

Wes gives him a puzzled look. _Then why did you kiss him?_

“I wanted to make a point. He didn’t kill me, did he? He’s harmless.”

Both Willow and Wes give him a deadpan look.

“. . . _mostly_ harmless.”

Wes gives his head another inquisitive tilt.

“‘If he’s not your boyfriend, what is he?’ That’s, uh. . .” Wilson nervously rubs the back of his head, kicking at the ground. “That’s a good question, actually. Will you accept ‘it’s complicated?’”

Wes shrugs. _Fair enough._

“They're mortal enemies that like to suck face. Oh, man, Wes, you missed it. Earlier Maxwell kissed Wilson so hard he _swooned._ Just, _bam,_ total knockout, ate dirt. It was _amazing._ ”

Wes looks delighted, joining his hands together beside a rosy cheek and bending a knee behind himself to pop his foot in the air.

“I know, right!? So romantic. I didn’t know Old Max had it in him. But I guess he is a big old drama queen, so.”

Wilson closes his eyes and steeples his fingers together in front of his mouth, taking a deep breath through them.

“That’s it. To hell with the stitches, I'm dunking you in the Pond.”

“What!? You jerk! What if my head gets infected and I die?”

“Meat Effigy.”

Willow punches him in the stomach, and Wilson sinks to his knees with a wheeze.

“That’s what you get for being—wait, what the hell?”

Wilson’s weak gasp comes out in a dark vapor that curls from between his lips.

“Holy crap, Wilson, are you okay?”

“O-Of c-course not,” he coughs, holding his stomach, “you p-punched me! Stars, it w-was j-just a joke!”

“I didn’t hit you _that_ hard, you big baby! But I'm talking about _that!_ ”

“About w-wh—?” His eyes widen at the dark mist that steams in the air with each exhale.

Willow sucks in a deep breath.

_“MAXWELL! MAXWELLLLLLLL! GET YOUR SPOOKY BUTT OVER HERE!”_

She waits. All the Survivors stop talking amongst themselves and stare at her.

When the magician doesn’t appear, she takes an even _larger_ breath than the first.

**_“MAAAAAAAAAAXWELLLLLLLL! MAXWELLMAXWELLMAXWELLMAXWELLMAXWELLMAXWELLMAXWELLMAXWELLMAXWELL—”_ **

_“WhatwhatWHATWHAT **WHATW̴̲̱̤̰̒̂͑͑̎͆̋̏͜H̸̨̨̭̻̪̠͎͂̅̾̎̇͂̅̒͛̚̚͜A̵̧̡̭̳̻̬̞̝̳͚̟͋̾͑̆̑͝Ṱ̵̢̰̤͚̞̖̰̼̤̼̞̃̓̂̈́̂̑͋̌̿̑̋͌̏!̴̢̦͎̉̈̊ͅ?̸̬̭̦̯̟͙͕̃̀** ”_ Maxwell appears before her in another great column of smoke, somehow looking more incensed than before. His form is practically crackling with dark energy, especially around the broad-set shoulders of his suit, which look as if they're spawning tongues of black flame on their own. _“What the hell could you **possibly** need **t̴̢̧̡̖̖͖̜̩̯̮̼̞̟̂̾ḫ̷̯̰̲̥̻̝̋̆͐̅̄ȋ̷̧̨̢̮̦̬̻̥̻͔͔̪̌͛̆̈́̋͛̊̃̒͝͠͝s̷̢̹̞̎ ̴̲͈̤̼̤̖̱̈̉̿̕̕t̸̨̨̡̡̢̟̤̭̦͇̯̦̾͋͌̈́͛̐͊̏͒͆̚i̶̧̠͙̖̼̰͈̟͉̦̩̩̐͂̕̕ͅm̶͔͕̥̌̔̉̔́̀͌̇̒̈̿̈́̈́͜ē̸͚̟͕͍͗̓̅̃̿̍́͗?̶̤̼̻͖̭͓̠̫̰̰̲̦͐̇̀͑̂͌̇͋̽̿̽̎̕͝** ”_

“Heh, that brings back memories.” Willow points to Wilson, who now seems to be coughing. “Your boyfriend is doing the thing again.”

Maxwell relaxes somewhat, but only because he’s momentarily too stricken with confusion to be angry. “. . .My what is doing the what now?”

“ _Your_ _man_ is about to hack something up.”

Maxwell blinks slowly at her, as if reclassifying the firestarter’s IQ. “. . .Then get him a glass of water?”

“ _No,_ he’s probably going to hack up a _spooky thing._ ” She grabs Maxwell by the hand and leads him over to Wilson, who is covering his mouth as he coughs and shaking his head. _“Look.”_

“N-No, i-it's— _c̴̛̰̦̜̮̓̋͋̈́̅͐̆̐̈́̎̌̚o̷̘͓̯̥̗̝̞̾͜u̷̠̰̟̝̦̍͗̋͜͜g̷̢̰̻̺̼̜̰͈̗̼̪̳̠͊̈́ͅh̸̼̣̰̙̻͙͍̰̻͔̝͇͂̿_ —just a t-tickle i-in m-my— _c̴̛̰̦̜̮̓̋͋̈́̅͐̆̐̈́̎̌̚o̷̘͓̯̥̗̝̞̾͜u̷̠̰̟̝̦̍͗̋͜͜g̷̢̰̻̺̼̜̰͈̗̼̪̳̠͊̈́ͅh̸̼̣̰̙̻͙͍̰̻͔̝͇͂̿ c̴̛̰̦̜̮̓̋͋̈́̅͐̆̐̈́̎̌̚o̷̘͓̯̥̗̝̞̾͜u̷̠̰̟̝̦̍͗̋͜͜g̷̢̰̻̺̼̜̰͈̗̼̪̳̠͊̈́ͅh̸̼̣̰̙̻͙͍̰̻͔̝͇͂̿_ —in m-my throat. I-I just— _ḩ̶̘̩̺̳̝̮͈̥̗̟̿̃̃͐͆͐̄ä̷̢̖̜͍͉͔̯̮̪́́̄̃c̷̗̪̔̎̿̅̓̅̍͌̋̋̌̒̓̚k̶̛͕̗̻͔̟͑͛̀̉̈̈́̄͋_ —need s-some water.”

Maxwell now has the fear of God in his eyes and Willow does not like that _one bit,_ no sir. But at least he was taking her seriously. He strides over and pulls Wilson’s hand away.

The same dark miasma Maxwell had been giving off during his morning hissyfit is now pouring out of the scientist’s mouth like smoke.

“Dammit, Wilson!” Willow stomps her foot. “I told you those cigars were bad for you! Even _science_ told you! And you didn’t listen! _To science!_ _Science,_ man!”

“I do not—I do not think it’s—”

“Yes. C-Cigars.” Wilson interrupts Maxwell, before another violent coughing fit interrupts _him._ “P-Probably just t-the cigars.”

Warly tentatively approaches Wilson with some water. “Ah. . .here. I don’t know if it will help, but try this.”

Wilson accepts it, and Warly continues. “Maxwell, you told me once that you don’t inhale cigars like you do other tobacco products. You just hold the smoke in your mouth and savor it. Is that correct?”

“Y-You absorb the tobacco a-and n-nicotine through oral m-mucosa,” Wilson gasps as he downs the cup, “n-not the lungs. S-So yes.”

Warly raises an eyebrow. “So you _do_ know how to properly smoke a cigar.”

“. . .I didn’t. . . _not_ s-say that.”

Wilson had figured it out first. Maxwell had realized it second. And Warly, nobody’s fool but his own, was the third.

And it just so happened to be in the exact same sequence this line of thinking had progressed the other night, from Wilson, to Maxwell, to Warly.

 _《_ _Wait a minute. I kissed you. I was so out of my head from those stupid petals you left lying everywhere that I forgot I kissed you. You're, like, half-Nightmare Fuel at this point. AND I KISSED YOU. Is that where that Shadow thing—!?_ _》_

Several nights ago this hadn’t mattered. Wilson hadn’t planned on doing anymore _anything_ with Maxwell. But then Maxwell had reciprocated his feelings, albeit in his own roundabout way, and with a little push from Charlie. And now Wilson’s entire world had been turned on its head.

He knew that now, that the Maxwell in his dream had been the real Maxwell, expressing his real desires. The Queen, in her infinite magnanimity, had simply bridged the gap between them. It was the little things that had tipped him off.

_Why so quiet, little **popinjay**? Normally **no one can get you to shut up.**_

_I rather like **“popinjay”** for you. Brash, pretentious, and **won’t stop squawking.**_

****

**_Tonic immobility?_ ** _How interesting. I always learn so much from you._

_I **remember hearing something** to the effect that certain animals have this response in which flipping them over or caressing a certain area will put them in a trance-like state. **Tonic immobility, I believe it was called.**_

****

_You know, pal, I think I should let you in on a little secret. **You were always my favourite pawn.**_

_Oh, **you really are** **my absolute favourite pawn.**_

_I could kiss you, I really could._

**She knew.**

_Do you think Maxwell’s infecting you with his weird black magic stuff?_

_Yeah, but nobody else was on the Throne. Maybe you’re just more sensitive to it now._

_I don’t wanna say “stay away from Maxwell,” but. . .I dunno either, Wilson. I really don’t._

**Charlie knew.**

_And now she wants to make you both suffer as she did, in the most deeply personal and soul-crushing ways imaginable._

**Charlie knew this was going to happen.**

Several nights ago this wouldn’t have mattered. But then on a whim, to get away from Higgsbury, Maxwell had joined the camp for dinner. And it was after he had recounted something the scientist had said that he heard his niece laugh for the very first time. Years of observing her in The Constant, and he’d rarely seen her crack a smile—though he supposes that was to be expected, given the situation—but an offhand comment about Wilson telling him his face was stupid and magic didn’t exist before throwing a handful of petals at him like confetti was enough to give both her and her sister the giggles.

It was right then that his cold black heart had started to thaw, just a little. And it had been so ridiculous and had caught him so off-guard he had started a chain reaction of laughter himself.

And then he gradually started noticing other things. Little, subtle things. How everyone in the camp had been avoiding acknowledging Abigail, whether out of fear or skepticism, until Wilson had started going out of his way to include her. Treating her like she was a real living person, a member of the camp, another Survivor rather than Wendy’s occasional attack dog, despite his tendency to scream and swing at anything supernatural in the hopes that it would go away if he simply yelled that it didn’t exist hard enough. Was it any wonder she had developed a little schoolgirl crush on him as a result?

And Wendy had been so grateful she had given them both a goodnight kiss. It had been _so long_ since Maxwell had received such affection, and from the blood relative he had betrayed, no less. Her confession that Wilson had reminded her of Jack had struck him like a Wigfrid punch to the sternum. If he hadn’t had decades’ worth of bitterness and contempt and hatred and cynicism to retreat into like a protective shell, he would have wept right along with Higgsbury.

It was because of Wilson that he'd become friendlier with the chef. It was because of Wilson Webber had stopped shying away and hiding whenever he'd approach. (Playing “doctor" was the longest he had been able to stay in his presence without fleeing. He hadn’t even blinked at Maxwell’s Deerclops comments, though he did flinch when Maxwell had reacted to Wilson setting his broken nose.) It was because of Wilson that Willow had been starting less and less anxiety-induced fires (though she still constantly flicked her Lighter when she was nervous). It was because of Wilson that Woodie and Wigfrid had started interacting with each other more, even becoming friendly enough to let her ride him in his Weremoose form like a battle steed without complaint. (He used to be scared of her.) It was because of Wilson that Wickerbottom hadn’t banished him from the camp—despite the camp being Wilson’s in the first place—as he had vouched for his character during their initial truce. He and the old librarian had then struck up a sort of friendship over magic and literature shortly thereafter, often chatting with her on nights he didn’t sleep.

It was because of Wilson Wendy had ignored his requests to just address him as “Maxwell" and insisted on calling him “Uncle" instead.

It was because of Wilson that he had started feeling _shame_ over how he had deceived Warly. It was because of Wilson that he had started feeling _guilt_ over how he'd treated Willow, despite how virulently she angered him on a daily basis. (It was bad enough she had begun resuming her favorite method of summoning-slash-annoying him, something he had erroneously thought he’d never have to hear again after having been usurped from the Throne.) Enough to break the oath he had lived by back when he was William Carter, one of the last things that had remained of his former life, and worse yet, _apologize._

He had once overheard Higgsbury lamenting to Willow that he had no special abilities. He was completely average in terms of strength, skill, and mental fortitude. Wholly unremarkable. He wasn’t completely immune to fire like his closest friend, he didn’t boast super-strength like Wolfgang, he couldn’t commune with spirits like Wendy, he possessed no surprisingly useful curse like Woodie, he wasn’t a celebrated chef like Warly who could heal with his superior cooking, he couldn’t hit nearly as hard as Wigfrid nor motivate his allies with the power of song, he couldn’t pacify Spiders or other insects like Webber, and he wasn’t well-versed enough in magic to use Wickerbottom’s books like Maxwell could. And despite his time on the Throne, his powers had been nowhere near as advanced as Maxwell’s. His special power, if one could even call it that, was Beard. He wasn’t even the only person who could build Science Machines, or Alchemy Engines, or Sea Labs, or Think Tanks anymore. Or even the weather machines he'd been so proud of early on in his first days in The Constant, the Lighting Rod, the Thermal Measurer, and The Rainometer. (When he had asked for Maxwell’s opinion on the latter two—"Not the most useful invention, is it?" and “I could also just look up to learn the same thing," respectively—Higgsbury had looked like he was going to cry.) And now what was by far the greatest insult of all—he had spent just enough time on the Throne to be sensitive to the corruption brought on by Nightmare Fuel, but couldn’t even manipulate it.

But even if his inventions were no longer his, even if his only _useful_ skill was in the profession he hated, he had a talent for inspiring people and bringing them together. Something that might be the most necessary survival skill of all, if they wanted to survive Charlie’s reign.

And Maxwell appreciated that about him. More than he'd ever thought possible. He was slowly changing everyone, changing _him,_ and only for the better. Maybe he could change Charlie, too.

But now he was staring at Maxwell with wide eyes full of pain and terror, pale and exhausted and looking completely crushed. He wasn’t stupid. He knows what’s coming.

“Wait, you don’t think—does this mean being around Maxwell is _poisoning_ you?”

Willow is the one who voices the thoughts Wilson, Maxwell, and Warly don’t want to say aloud. Words cannot be taken back. Once they are out there, they become part of reality. A part of reality Wilson _really_ didn’t want to acknowledge.

Her next question is much softer, both in volume and emotion.

“. . .does this mean you can’t even kiss your own boyfriend?”

Wilson bows his head. And the rest of the Survivors fall silent.

Thunder rumbles again, closer than before.

“. . .we just can’t have nice things, can we.”

His fingers curl and flex at his sides before balling into fists. He spits venom as well as dark mist.

“. . .no. _I_ can’t have nice things. Nothing I actually _want._

I don’t. . .I don’t ask for much. Knowledge. A place to work. Inventions that work. Inventions that are _mine._ And just a little shred of whatever approximates to happiness in this hell.

I've been here so long. So long. Longer than most. I've died so many times. There’s never an end. There’s never relief. And I'm just. . .I'm so damn tired.”

“Wilson. . .” Willow reaches for him, and he recoils from her touch.

“We can’t. . .I don’t know what happens when we die for real. Now that Charlie’s in charge. Will we wake up alone again? In a different world? All our progress reset? Over and over, again and again, _ad infinitum,_ in this purgatorial wilderness hellscape?

I don’t want to find out. I want it to end, but. . .I don’t want to be alone again. I can’t handle it. _I can’t._ ”

“You _won’t_ be alone,” Willow soothes. “You have all of us. Me, Warly, Webber, Wendy. . .your friends. And your, uh. . .” She looks at Maxwell. “Your kinda-sorta non-platonic frienemey?”

“Do I? Do I, though? Or is Charlie going to take that away along with **Ȩ̵̫͚̥̥̘̤̗̙͉̰̃̇͋̀̍̇͝V̸̛̝͈̯̣̘̞̂́̎̑͐̓̍̈́͑͂̚̕ͅE̷̡̡̨̛͈̪͚͖͍͚̥͈͗̒̌R̴̢̫͓͎̱̠͆̑͂̈́̈́̎̄̋̋̓̒Y̴̡̝͎̿̆͒̀̀͒͝T̸̛̺̠̜̖͙̖̑̌̂̈́̄́̂̈́̽͒̔̕Ḣ̷̨͙̜̞͎̜̫̬̳̳͊͂͌̓̏̇̄͠͝Į̸͈̳̰̗̹̫̼͖̲̮͋̽͑͛̔͋͜͝N̷̨̡̢̦̟̝̯̩̭͔͉̰̩̖̒̔̑̓͒͆G̷̡͕͉̘͕͎̪̻̮͙̭̗͘ Ę̶̛̘̪̝͈̥͈͚͔͖͔̹͍͆͆̾̆͘Ļ̴̧̡̬͉̮͇͇̩̤͚͙̦̣̲̾͒S̸̛̩̗͕͈̟̹̠̓͑͒E̶̹̲̤̠̭͚̜̻̊ͅ!?** ”

Maxwell starts to approach him now, and Wilson draws back.

**“N̸̨̮̰͈͉̟̘̬͖̜͉̔̋̿́̚ͅơ̵̞͙͂̄͒̌̊͐.̸͖̯̗̺̮̠̙͔͂̔̍̔ Y̴̤͎͇̯͌ȍ̵̺̯̜͖͙̗̱̲̹͂̇͒̈́ͅũ̶̡̢̳̣̮̬̍̈́͌̑̀͜͝ͅ s̸̠̙̣͍̅͆͗̇̅̽̈́̈͒͑͌̋̎̎̾t̸̛̻̥̯̩̩͕̬̐͗̂̊̆̓̓̒̈́̒͘͝ͅa̷̛̘̱̺̖͓̾̇̓̔͛̽́̈́̃͆͝ͅý̸̧̡̡̲̞̲̟͖̮̳̫̾̀͗̊͛̍̌̀̇̚͘͜ t̵̢͖͖̣̞̲̦̮̟̮̹̮͖̊̈͊͗͛̔̓ͅh̸̺͍̙̙͎͍̞̗̠͇̤̦̤̍͗̉͘͠e̵̫̯̮̣͕̟͌͂͆̏̄̕͜͠ ̸̢̧̯̖̄͑̏͒̎͌́̒h̵͖͓̽̀͋̄̏ę̶̰̲̖̲̗̞̱͛l̸̢̫͓͈̖̲̏͑͛̉̋̎̑̾̆̍̑͝l̸̡̢̛̖̮̦̭͙̜̼̼̰̊̍̍̋͐̕͝͝͝͝ a̸̻̺̜̺̮̫͈̩͉̠̝̙͇̫͋͌̈́͆̒̕w̷̼̠̱͖̬̫̋a̵͙̖̣͎͕̫̯̣̐̀̃͌̏̾̿͋͋͐͑̏͠y̷̠̦̾̈͑̃͗̃̂̽͘̕͝f̴͎͍͕̳̪̖̦̠̫͖̝̙̓̑̎̈́̈͂͊̀͛̊͘͠r̴̨̨̧͚̙̝̗̯͕̻͛̎̒̊̌͛̂͒͗̌̆̿̾͘͜o̴̡̥͎̹̗̝̳̠̟̠͚̅̔͌͘͜͠ṁ̶̺̣̬̳̄̿͒̉͆̍͗̑͆̏̎̓͠͝ ̵̧̦͎͈̭̣͓̞̭͒̏̚̚̚̕͜m̵̨̬̠͕̖͎͉̙̥̹͖͙̃̂͒͊̽͌͐̀̒̈́ͅę̵̯̹̥̥̩͙͓̮̌̅̾̏͗̾͐͒̀̚͘͝.”**

“Higgsbury. . .”

**“T̶̛̳̯̙͖̘̥͔͖͎͈͉̻̯͍̅̈́͛̃̈́͛̔́̔͋ḫ̵͙̥̲̳̭̠̫̞̣̦͎̽̈́́́̇͌͌̌̔̐͋͒͜i̶̧̖̔̏̆̉̊͌̅s̶̨̗͎̩͔̲̙͚͚̝̏̈́̔͛͊͜ i̸̢̹̯̟̩̠̘̋͂̆̈̿͆͌̊̕̕͠š̴̢͇͉̲̝̗͉͓̊̋̑̋̋͗̚͜ ̷̡̫̫̱̳̤̖͙̗̖̩̰͈͕̝̏̋̽̓̾̉͠a̸̬͚͒̓l̵̢̫͓͔̠͕̯̦̠̓̄́͛̿̀͛͒̈́̌͛l̴̛̪̥͍̠̈̓̊̿͊̐͑̃̄̄̋͠ y̷̧̘̞̟̣̲̗̭̦̱͓̝͛͌͆̾̾́͘͜o̶̧̡̙̗͕̯͚͛̒͊̂͛͊̐́̉̔̕͝u̴̢̧͇͎̲̬͓̿̈́͐̏̿̈͆̇̿̈́̒̐̂̚͜ř̶̡̦̪̰̰̩͈̊͑̃̐͋̌͂̈́̎̕͠͝ f̷̡̹̻̰͚͇̣͈̥̱͓̒͒̍̈̾̆̓͘͘͘͘͜͝͠a̷̡̢̨̦̰̯̗̣̜̳̬͙̮̅̈́̿͛̄̈̎̿̚̕͝ͅu̴̢̖̘̦͖̙͉̗̣̭̬͓̻̎͌́͂̊̚ļ̴̻̘̣͔̩̖̦͉̟̣͙̞̞̈̅̾̋͗̚͝t̵̼͇̗̮͚̣̪͉͙̲̓͂.”**

He was right, of course.

**This was your fault...**

He was right.

**You did this...**

But why did it _hurt_ this time?

**You...**

Was he _really_ that fond of Higgsbury?

**You...**

Or was there something else?

**…**

Maxwell takes another step forward. A flash of lightning streaks across the sky overhead, followed by a much louder rumbling.

“Higgsbury.” Maxwell tries again, his voice lower, sweeter. That stupid silken voice, but this time sans the usual undercurrent of derision. It was quiet, even, almost _tender._ “I need you to calm down a little. I cannot help you otherwise. Can you do that for me?”

**“I̷͖̟̻̬̝̮̰̟͓͒͐̆͑́͆̔͘͘͠ ̷̛͇̬͖͇̱̊̽̂̈͋̕̕ḫ̴̨̛̈́̔͆͑͊̈́̊͒͆̅̂̂ȧ̶̖͕̲̩̱̟͚̮͇͈͔̠̿̊̓̍̄̍̐̂̍̽̍͜͠ẗ̵͙͓̹̰̦̥̫̩̺́̎̌̑̌̊͊͌̀̈̈̊̉͆͠ě̴̳̜̩͈͙̖̙̞̾̈́̓͗̅ͅ ̵̡̨̛̜̥̇͊̋͛̓̐̓͗͝y̸̨͙͔͉̝̜̥̣̥̹̱̺͓̞̰͌̏͊̅̾́̉̅͑̇̀̿̚o̷̢͕̫̫͖̘͕̯̙͈͎̲̠̙̊͛̃̍́͒̅̋̀̾̆̊͆u̶̹͍͚̣̺͎̮̙̠̱͚͇̠̰̣̚.̷̛̮̦̘͓̗̝͇͔̲͔͎̳̂̈́͌͌̍͒̐̓͠͠”**

Maxwell chuckles softly, which sends the dullest spark of confusion surfacing through the sheer enmity in the scientist’s eyes. “I know, pal.”

He curls his fingers beneath Wilson’s jaw, tipping his chin up and passing a gloved thumb over those snarling lips. “I know you do.”

He stoops down slightly, bringing his face closer, and his next words are an almost airy sigh.

“I hate you, too. . .”

The kiss was softer than Wilson had ever imagined Maxwell being capable of. It was _wrong._ It was _all wrong._ And yet. . .

And yet his hand rises to thread his fingers through the magician’s thin hair. The loss of collagen with age, the natural moisturizing molecules stripped away with the dying pigmentation made it feel so brittle. . .

But his skin maintained most of its elasticity. How was that possible? Perhaps because it felt almost stretched tightly over his skeleton, there was no real give? That’s what he thinks as he trails his fingers over a jutting cheekbone. . .

So much of Maxwell’s epidermis felt like paper. But he had softer parts. His lips. His thighs. His earlobes. His inner wrists. His palms, surprisingly. Or maybe not so surprisingly, given how he kept them covered, and the lengths to which he would go to avoid physical labor. Why mar his kingly hands with callouses when he had Puppets at his disposal, both Shadow and mortal?

And despite the Shadows churning inside him, despite Charlie’s icy laughter and T̸̢̡̲̱̥͕͍̲̬̿͐͛̌̈́h̴͔͍̝͍̱͍͒̉̓̄͛̈́͝ẹ̸̛͉̗̓͐̀̿̈́̇͌̒̓ͅm̷̡͍̟̙̟̲͕̹̣̖̲̯̋̓̎̊̍̂͊͐̍͘͜͠͝ screaming at him, Maxwell had him by the strings.

Maxwell finally pulls back and raises his face skyward, blowing a writhing, oily cloud of pitch into the air above him. As easily and carelessly as he would cigar smoke.

“Thinking a little more clearly?”

Wilson can only nod.

“Good. Because I need your help.”

Wilson could help. Wilson was helpful.

“You’ve stopped coughing. Has your throat improved?”

Wilson nods.

“Good, because I require your voice. Mr. Warly, would you kindly fetch the scientist another cup of water for me, please?”

_“Mais bien sûr.”_

_“Je vous suis très reconnaissant pour votre aide, comme toujours.”_

Overly formal, as always. _Quelle surprise._

“Ms. Willow. Webber. _You._ ” Maxwell snaps his fingers at Wes. “Behind me.”

He can feel Willow tentatively press into his side, and the spiderchild hug one of his legs. Wes doesn’t budge from his spot, glaring.

“Are you—” He catches himself before he can say _deaf._ “—daft, mime? Behind me. _Now._ ”

Wes continues to scowl, but eventually obeys, though refusing to stand nearly as closely as the others.

“The rest of you.” Maxwell turns his head slightly to address the remaining Survivors. “Take up your arms.”

Wigfrid nods, her hand on her spear. She pats Woodie’s thick, dewlapped neck, and he nods in turn. They both join Maxwell’s side. Wolfgang, a Meat Bat in his hands, stands beside them.

Wickerbottom stands to the other side of Maxwell, her books at the ready. Wendy squeezes between her and her uncle, a Tentacle Spike in one hand and Abigail's Flower in the other. Abigail is not far behind. Warly returns with Wilson’s water, a Machete in his belt. He hands the cup off to him with a reassuring clap on the shoulder.

“Are you ready, Higgsbury?” Maxwell seems to pull the Codex Umbra out of existence itself.

“Yes. What would you have me do.”

Traces of mist still pass his lips, but he looks much more cognizant now. His usual determination seems to have returned, along with his senses. _For now,_ Maxwell thinks. _But likely not for long._

Maxwell flips open the Codex and willingly hands it to him, much to Wilson’s surprise. _Nobody_ touched the Codex, not if they desired keeping their appendages. “Read this passage aloud for me, please. I want to be sure I am using the proper pronunciation and emphasis.”

“But. . .Wickerbottom knows Latin, too. It’s probably a lot better than mine.”

“I am not asking Wickerbottom. I am asking _you._ ”

“. . .O-Okay.” He takes a swig of water and clears his throat. “The one that starts with _fugio_ and ends with _perdita_?”

“Correct.”

Wilson takes a deep breath.

“ _Fugio sine fine_

_~~I fall without end~~ _

_Daemon est, parce mihi_

_~~Demon, spare me~~ _

_Furiosus occulos timeo_

_~~I fear the furious eyes~~ _

_Frigeo, cor fit petra_

_~~Cold, the heart becomes rock~~ _

_Vita mea fracta est_

_~~My life is broken~~ _

_Et demissa_

_~~And dispirited~~ _

_Et perdita.”_

_~~And lost.~~ _

“Oh, my,” Wickerbottom murmurs. “It seems he was not bluffing nor overstating his ability, after all. That was _perfect._ ”

“It’s so weird when you find out he _actually_ _knows_ stuff,” Willow agrees quietly. “Always something you never expect, like Latin or French or _sign language,_ of all things.”

Try as he might, Maxwell can’t keep the awe out of his voice, either. “Once more, if you would.” _I think it’s working._

Miasma is starting to pour from Wilson's mouth anew. His legs are starting to shake, and sweat beads on his forehead. “I-I. . .I don’t know if I—” he is interrupted by coughs, “i-if I can. Ṱ̵̢̢̡̬̩̘͇̜̖̜̹̭͉̄̒͆͐͌̈́̒͌̄̎̉͝ͅh̸̻̬̖̬͗̓͊̒̇͠ë̷̥́͠ỹ̸̢̬̣̯͔͈̓̇̀̂͂̈́̈̎͘ are. . .making i-it difficult t-to concentrate.”

“I know. I can hear how displeased Ṱ̵̢̢̡̬̩̘͇̜̖̜̹̭͉̄̒͆͐͌̈́̒͌̄̎̉͝ͅh̸̻̬̖̬͗̓͊̒̇͠ë̷̥́͠ỹ̸̢̬̣̯͔͈̓̇̀̂͂̈́̈̎͘ are. But they don’t control me, and they sure as hell don’t control _you._ So once more. Please.”

“Warly. _De l'eau, s'il te plait?_ ”

Warly smiles and refills his cup from his waterskin. _“Accroche-toi, mon ami scientifique. Tu peux le faire.”_

Wilson returns his smile with a weak one of his own. _“Je l'apprécie.”_ He takes another drink and tries again.

_“Fugio sine fine / Daemon est, parce mihi. . .”_

He wipes the sweat from his brow.

_“F-Furiosus occulos timeo. . .”_

His knees buckle, and Warly grabs his arm to steady him. Wendy and Abigail rush to his side to hold the other.

_“F-Frigeo. . .c-cor fit petra—c̴̛̰̦̜̮̓̋͋̈́̅͐̆̐̈́̎̌̚o̷̘͓̯̥̗̝̞̾͜u̷̠̰̟̝̦̍͗̋͜͜g̷̢̰̻̺̼̜̰͈̗̼̪̳̠͊̈́ͅh̸̼̣̰̙̻͙͍̰̻͔̝͇͂̿ c̴̛̰̦̜̮̓̋͋̈́̅͐̆̐̈́̎̌̚o̷̘͓̯̥̗̝̞̾͜u̷̠̰̟̝̦̍͗̋͜͜g̷̢̰̻̺̼̜̰͈̗̼̪̳̠͊̈́ͅh̸̼̣̰̙̻͙͍̰̻͔̝͇͂̿!”_

Wilson holds his head, as if beset by a sudden migraine.

“Keep going. You’re almost done,” Maxwell assures him gently.

“Does. . .” Willow grips Maxwell a little tighter. “Does anyone else hear whispers? Whispers that sound kinda. . .mad?”

_“V-Vita mea—c̴̛̰̦̜̮̓̋͋̈́̅͐̆̐̈́̎̌̚o̷̘͓̯̥̗̝̞̾͜u̷̠̰̟̝̦̍͗̋͜͜g̷̢̰̻̺̼̜̰͈̗̼̪̳̠͊̈́ͅh̸̼̣̰̙̻͙͍̰̻͔̝͇͂̿ c̴̛̰̦̜̮̓̋͋̈́̅͐̆̐̈́̎̌̚o̷̘͓̯̥̗̝̞̾͜u̷̠̰̟̝̦̍͗̋͜͜g̷̢̰̻̺̼̜̰͈̗̼̪̳̠͊̈́ͅh̸̼̣̰̙̻͙͍̰̻͔̝͇͂̿—f-fracta est / et demissa. . .”_

“Yeah, you’re right, gal.” Woodie shifts nervously. “I hear ‘em, too. And I got a killer headache comin' on, for some reason. . .”

 _“. . .E-Et per. . .”_ Wilson is completely drained of color, and his chest heaves with labored breaths. _“Per. . .perdita.”_

“Maxwell, what did forcing him to repeat that incantation accomplish?” Wickerbottom is beside herself. “Wilson is getting worse!”

“As I said, I needed to make sure my incantations were correct. And given that _everyone_ can now hear how angry Ṱ̵̢̢̡̬̩̘͇̜̖̜̹̭͉̄̒͆͐͌̈́̒͌̄̎̉͝ͅh̸̻̬̖̬͗̓͊̒̇͠ë̷̥́͠ỹ̸̢̬̣̯͔͈̓̇̀̂͂̈́̈̎͘ are, instead of just Higgsbury and me, that lends further credence to my theory that this is the correct incantation for a little. . .exorcism, shall we say.”

“Oh, goodness.” Wendy squeezes Wilson’s arm. “How exciting. I _do_ enjoy a good exorcism.”

“Heh.” Woodie sounds a little woozy. “Apple didn’t fall far from the tree, eh?”

“R-Rotted. . . _c̴̛̰̦̜̮̓̋͋̈́̅͐̆̐̈́̎̌̚o̷̘͓̯̥̗̝̞̾͜u̷̠̰̟̝̦̍͗̋͜͜g̷̢̰̻̺̼̜̰͈̗̼̪̳̠͊̈́ͅh̸̼̣̰̙̻͙͍̰̻͔̝͇͂̿ c̴̛̰̦̜̮̓̋͋̈́̅͐̆̐̈́̎̌̚o̷̘͓̯̥̗̝̞̾͜u̷̠̰̟̝̦̍͗̋͜͜g̷̢̰̻̺̼̜̰͈̗̼̪̳̠͊̈́ͅh̸̼̣̰̙̻͙͍̰̻͔̝͇͂̿_ on the b-branch.”

“A-And I—” he hands the Codex back to Maxwell and takes another drink, “—mean t-that with. . .a-all the l-love in m-my heart. . .W-Wendy.”

“I know you do,” she giggles quietly, “ _pal._ ”

Warly signs the cross over himself. _“Et que Dieu nous aide tous.”_

Wilson starts a little when Maxwell rests a hand on his head. “I'm going to start now, so prepare yourselves accordingly. Keep in mind I cannot stop once I start, nor can I aid you.”

“We can handle it,” Willow pipes up from beside him. “We all made it here alive in spite of you, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” Maxwell responds through a barely perceptible chuckle, “I suppose you did. Now get ready.”

He already had the incantation memorized, but having the Codex open seemed to help steady his concentration, give him a point of focus.

_“F̸̈́͜u̴̦giő̸̠ ̸̹̅s̴͇͠ỉ̷͕n̷̝̉e̴̡͘ ̸̛̺f̸̞͑i̷̳̐ṋ̶̇ê̶̩_

_̴͉͘D̵̡̑á̶̠e̵̳͛m̶̙̅ǫ̷̃ṉ̴̈́ ̸̲̓é̶͎s̸̜̕t̴͇̊,̸̨̄ ̴̯͗p̵̫͌a̸̧͌r̶͍͊c̷͍͊e̸͈̓ ̵̪̿m̸̺i̶͈͐h̶͈̑i̷̦͆_

_̵͕̇F̵̞͒ű̸͓r̶̢̕ȉ̶̲ȯ̸͚s̴̟̏ú̷̱s̷͔̔ ̶̜͋ó̴̻c̴̛̹c̵̬͠u̸͈͂l̴̗̈́ö̵͇́s̶͕̅ ̵̩̀t̶̤i̶̘̊m̷̈́͜e̶̢͑o̸̻͘_

_̵̰́F̵̡r̷̡̓i̷͍̔g̶̥̈́ẽ̶̱ȏ̶̫,̶͖͌ ̶̡͝c̷̱̍ő̷̦r̴̢̉ ̷̛͇f̷̜̆i̶̢̊ṫ̵̬ ̵̗͠p̶̲̌e̶̟͑ţ̴̓ṟ̶͋a̷̳͝_

_̴̢V̷̼̉ī̶̹t̶̺͒a̶͖͝ ̷̪̎m̶͚͝ė̵̠á̵͚ ̴̞̚f̸̝̿r̵̲̐a̷̧̕c̴͓̃t̸͕̄a̶͈̚ ̶̤́e̶̛͜ş̸̓t̵͚͝ ̴̼̍e̴̺͑t̷͍̓ ̷̜̚d̵̤͝ḛ̶̀m̶̂ͅi̷͚͛s̴̛͚s̷͇̃a_

_̸̢̎E̸̻̒t̸̫̀ ̶͔̒p̸͜ė̶̠r̶͕d̴̖̈́i̸͚͒t̵̳̕a̸̿͜.”_

He is dimly aware of Willow and Webber hugging him tighter. Woodie groans somewhere down the line, and Wigfrid says something to comfort him.

**_“F̷̲̲̈́̕͝u̸̠̝̅̓giö̶͓̣͈́̾̈ ̵̗̬͎̮̈̔ŝ̷̯̖̃̆ǐ̵̱̔̆̚ņ̷̢̗͆͜ě̶͙̋̄ ̸͖̌̍͝f̷̧̽͑͠i̸̤̦̻͚͌̈́̊̅n̶͖͇̦̋̕ȩ̷̪̳͉̌_ **

**_̸̜̙̯̜̓D̸̘̮͇̣͆ą̵͐̿̏e̵̟͚̐̿m̵̞͂o̶͎̫̰̩͛͛n̴̠͒͂̕ ̵̢̚e̵͓̘̩̐s̴̜̞̍̊͛͘t̴͍̖̅̎̓,̶̦̎ͅ ̷͚̬̻̺̾̈́̎p̷̰̎a̸̧̼̰̪̎r̸̖̣̎̾͠c̴͓͎̬̰̅͑ȅ̸̮͗̄ ̴͇̱͇̓̓̎͘m̵̪̳̍͜ḯ̴̲̙̼̗ȟ̶͚̯̙͈i̷̤̹̯̎̚_ **

**_̸̢͎̯̃̀F̷͎̉̓̃u̴̟̞̚̕͜r̶̛̰̦̪̓ì̸͈̦̖ȯ̵̦̬̙͌s̷̘̈̀ǘ̸̖̞̍s̶̞̓ ̴̱̈̕o̶͓͉͖̟͑͝c̵̖͝c̸̡̹͇̫̀ǘ̶̱̲̟̃̄ͅl̶͗ͅo̷̘̲͂͘͝s̶͓̭̊ ̸͈̼̞̿̀͛͜t̶̢̅̉͝ͅi̵͇͇̼̔m̷͕̪̒͋̑͂ê̷̗͖͐̓͝o̸̤̜͋_ **

**_̴̩̟̻̓͗͗F̵̭̺̹͗̇̓r̶͓̙̦̦̈́i̵̙̺͎̰͐͆͝ğ̷̣̻͍ë̷̲͓́͗̄ͅọ̸̯̗͚̈́,̶̡̧̳̫̽̉ ̴̝͙̝̉̊c̶̦̙̑̇͠o̷͚͕̠̰͒̎r̴̞̺̰͌͑̚ ̷̙̘̞͐f̶̢͚̾i̷̱̚t̵͕̳̯͉͐̚ ̶̭̬͊͘ṕ̸͙͊͗͝ę̵̉͝͠͝ţ̴͕̪̻̆͌͋͛r̸̩̳̥͌̈́̀͝a̶̭̜͊͊̀̈_ **

**_̴̖̥̺̭͂V̴͊̈́́͜͝i̵̹̺̘͛ṭ̷̛̭̙̜́̈́̽a̴̋̑ͅ ̸̨̳̋͐̽̆ḿ̴̛̯̊̈́e̴̡̨͕̙͌a̵̡͂͝ ̷̹̄̂f̵̡̱͘̚r̵͕̗͕̈́ạ̴̺̈c̶͈̖̀̇ẗ̴̼̬̪̪́̅̈́ą̶̚ ̷͔̻̳͒ę̵̏̑ṡ̴̗̟̞̜̈́̈̕ẗ̶̨̝̤́͆̍ ̷̙͓̿͂̍̎e̶̬̭͊̾̿̚t̶͇̙͗͜ ̴͇͇͑̕d̴͎͇̯e̸̤̓͜ṃ̷͗̇̈́͝i̶̘̗̠͇̎͒̌s̸͙̐̚s̴̥͖͔̏̃a_ **

**_̴̗͍͐̎̈́͌E̵̡͙̺͙͊̏̈́ẗ̴̛̳́ ̸̧̜͈̎͌͌͝p̶̨̛̦̙̪̃̔e̶̝̥̟͛̋̏r̷͍̭̬͒͊̅͝d̵͉͚͓̀͠ͅǐ̷͇̔̓͠t̵̰͛͝à̷̮.”_ **

Wilson’s head is tipped back, eyes completely blank, his mouth hanging open. The miasma pouring out of him begins to twist into what is unmistakably a Shadow; a Terrorbeak, not quite fully-formed and not yet hostile, winds itself around Maxwell’s arm and rubs up against him like a cat.

Wolfgang, overcome with fright and dealt a devastating blow to his sanity, drops first.

**_“F̸̡̻͉̙͔̲̋ų̸̛̰̗͈̪̥͎̗͙̥̿̐͗̓͋͛̄̕̕͜͠ͅgio̵̝̪̙̫͐̅̇͑̓͂ ̷̻̃͜s̶̨̯̥̗̘̺͉͂̚i̴͔͛̎̑͗͋̑͂̓̀͜n̷̡͎̞͖̰̮͝͠è̴̢̢͈͕̜̹̰́̅̂ͅ ̴̢̡̛͕͔͇͍̰͚̖͔̞̄̓̈́̎̉̇̚̕f̵̧͚̼̮̜̟̼͉̮̯̳͐̔̓̊́̅͠͝i̵̡̼̪̦̓͆̑͑͑̚n̴̡̨̺̪̪͙͉̬̪͛́͗̅̌̈́̄̕ĕ̴̱͈͉̺̪̫̙̈́͋͗̋̂ͅ_ **

**_̸̢̱͓̹̫̋̈͐͗̇͌̕̕͜D̵̤̦̮͌̑͘a̴̙̩̹̞̟̻̗͇͛̒̊̓̌̀̋̆ę̵̛͇̟̣̲̘͖͔͍̱̺̉̓̒͆m̸̡̨̛̦̥̹̟̃̌͂͌͗̏̎͌͒͠o̸͇̭̲̻͑̃͛ͅn̴͕͍̽̌ ̷͕̐̓̄̎̂̈́ȇ̴̠̰̱͔̝̞͎̓̈͘s̴͚̥̳̤̲̣̜̘̞̓̈́͜͜t̴̙̟͉͙̟͒̐̈͊̿̉̑͜,̵͍̜̮̃̈́̽͘͝ ̵̖̩̞͖̩̙̾̃̃͝p̵̧̬̯̻͔͌̑̓̅̽̕ͅa̷̳̬̩̤͎̱̖͙̋͗̃͑̊͛̆̔͝r̵̼̳͖̻̲̿̋̈͂̈́̓̈́̏̚̕͜͜c̴̛̥͔̭̱̍̌̃̿̈́̿̑͜͝ȩ̸̣̝̖̦̘̝͓̫̖̫͠ ̸̡̢͚̹͙͝m̴͕̆̐̿̀͋̎̈̌̿͘̚͠i̷͙̤̦̰̟̎̒͐͝ḧ̶̼̜͓͈̻̺̲͊ͅi̴̩̣̍̅̊̃͛͒̄͒̔͑̾̚_ **

**_̵̭̖̰͂̀̇̏͋̒͛̔̂̚͝F̵̡͇̙̞̬̠̜̮͖͍̱̩̀̌̔̽̽̑̃û̶̧͚̣̬͎̉͝ŗ̷̨͓̩̘̪̝͖̽͜ͅͅį̸͓̹̖͖͌͂̓̅̏̾͘o̶̱̜̹͔͉͈͖̲͚͇̱̱͐́̄̈́̀̈́̍̅̍̑͠s̵̱̣͕͉̼͊͐̀ṳ̵͈̤̑̑͆͊͊͆̕͜s̸̢̧̡͖̣͎̪͍͙̪̓̀ ̵̻͍̔̐͒͛͊̾̕ơ̷̛̪̳͍̹͓̫̟̬̄̓̃̀̓͜c̴̞̼͒̒͌̅͘͝ć̶̡̪̠̘̝̳̭͒̇́͂̕ͅu̷̖̠̤̞͇̤̙͌̆̀͒̿̒̕͘͝͠͠l̴̡̨̢͚̫̣̟͉̭̗̬̻̎́̄͌ò̷͔̙̃͠͝s̸͍͕̈́̊͠ ̵̛̰̭͛̽̓͝ţ̷̪̖͇̱̰͈̫̽̎̚͜i̵͎̹͉̥͉̗͔̱̇͑̾̆̃̉̉͝m̸͈͕̀ȇ̵̡̜̹͈͍̺̣̾͘ͅơ̸̡̡̘̪̼̬͓͈͖̠̭̤̐͋͒͊͒̿̋̅̐̾_ **

**_̸͍̝̤̓̈́̇̋̀͛̚͠F̶̝͓̩͕̻̥̝̗͛̿̎r̵̡̢̙̤̮͖̗̳̯͎̼͇͂͐i̵͖̱̟̹͑̑́͛̓̓̾͒͘ģ̸̖̺̭̥͎͍̀̄̄̎̒̽ȩ̸̗̥̜̣͖̬͎͎̿̀̓̄̃̈́̒̌ǒ̶̡̳̣̞̠̹̭̜͙̔͊̀̕,̷͓̟̩̼͔̓̎͛͌͛͠͝͠ ̷̣̗̘̻̝͛̏̽c̸̡̤͊̎̚ơ̷̡̞̗̳̟̦͋r̸̢̜̲͙̙̹̪͎̄̏ ̴̢̣̲͓̮̠͕͒̃̉̾̄͗́͗̔͠͠͠f̸̲̬͙̤̆̇͒̐ͅḯ̸̛̫̦̦͎̝̹͙͂̈͊͐̽̑͒͑̓ť̵̢̨̧͉̟̝͙̬̙̘̭̪͊͗̈́̕̚͝ ̴̧̫̠̟̞̱͊͒̇̊̔͝p̵̧̦̥̋̋͂̒e̷̛̹̳̣͆̓̉̓̆̏̃̈́t̸̢̩͇̜̒͑̈́̕r̸̨̩̥͚̭̠̦̎̈́̇̿̔̕̚̚͝a̸̛̳̙̟̲͙̹̮̠̎̌̌̍̒̎_ **

**_̴̤͕̻̙͉̼̳͇̼̤͇́͐̍̿̍̀̇V̵̨͇̰̙͚̲͉̺̯̻͙̈́̆̾i̵̧̜͍̟̼̹̞̰̔̋̌̋͠t̵̢͚̳̝̹͚̬̹͖͎̟̯̋̅́̍̉͂͊̑͆͘͘ạ̴̽ ̵̮̣͉̅̈́m̸̢͙͚̖͙̋̿͗͑̕ę̴͚̼̙̩͔̞̦̼̐̅̈̐͒̿̓̈a̸̡̨̛͍̘͓͇̳͕͛͊̓̂̈́̾̾͝ ̴̮̩͉̱͖̟̜̠̦͉͚̒͌̒͂̓̌͘̕͜f̷̦̱͗̐̍͐͝r̴̦̫̙̟͚̺̃̈̿̈̅̌̒̍͛̾̚͜a̸̧̨̧͚̜̮̯̘͙̘̘͈̾̅̅̽̌́̽͘̚͝͠͠c̵̨̘̏̿̉̌̍͗͐͊̊̾͝͠t̴̨͈͈̼̰̳̽̄̈́͌̾̓̈ā̷͔͊̐ ̶̙̜̟̜̍̾̓̂̽̅̒̆̐͋e̷̬̘̺̗̩̥̘̥͖̙̾s̸̛̘̱̗̞̓͋̿͊͌̎͆͂ẗ̸̪̲́̅̏ ̷̻̣̰̐͑̏̃̚͘e̴̲̩̩̜̳̥̻͊̚ṱ̸̨͚̥̪̰̥̲̪̌͂̀͋͂́͌͂͒̿̓͜ ̸̧͍̣̆̔̊͊͋̾̚͘ḑ̵̯͙̠̳̱̩̣̃̌̎̂ę̷̰̕m̵̡̧̛͖͔̈́̐̓͌͘i̴̛̫͎̯̠͛͋͂̐̂ͅs̴̛̜͙̞̃̌͌͗̇͝͝s̶̛̲͓͔̫̓̃̐̑̌͠a_ **

**_̸̧̧̹̥̩̜̳͙̭̠̊̒͜͝ͅE̸̛̤̙̞͓͈͇͈̖͉͜t̸̮̟̓̑͠ ̴̻̻͕̇̏͝p̵̢̨̛̣͈̙͉̪̦̳̂̑̍͆̿̽͐̈é̵̠̤͍͍̺̣͈̤͇̼͉͊̂͒̉̌̂̄͜͠r̸͖̟̺̪͓̫͍͕̳͌͋͒͊̌̊̕̕͝d̵̢̓̒͌͌̂̈́͌̈́̽̇̀͝i̸̲̜̟̹͖͍̥̦͐͑̎̂̆͋͋̈́̋͂͘t̶̛̫̗̭̮̹̙̍͒́͊̋̑̓̆̓̐ä̴̢̪͔̗̘̼͕̯̺̟͍̹́̿̄̿͝!”_ **

Willow releases Maxwell to start building a fire in front of them. At first Maxwell thinks it’s her nervous tic at it again, but then dusk begins to fall. And with the dusk comes more thunder, sounding much more consistently than the few stray rumbles from earlier.

**_“F̶̝̪̈́̈́U̸͝GȊ̴̥̅O̸̤͗̚ ̶̜̘̾S̷̝̓I̷̤̜̓̂N̵̗̜̾̾Ê̸͈͕̎ ̸̟̰͝͠F̷̩͘Ḯ̵̻́N̵̰̪͋̒Ẻ̶̪͜_ **

**_̵͚͖̕D̸̩̘̀͘A̴̺̻͋Ḛ̷̊M̷̗͒O̴̢̞̚N̶̺͖̔́ ̸̺̆̍E̵͖S̵̬͑̑Ť̶̫,̶̫̰͛ ̷͓̠̍͝P̶̣̘̏Å̸͚͒R̷̳̪͒͛C̴̨̬͛Ĕ̵͍̀ ̴̲̇̔M̶̲̏̀Ḭ̷̬̑Ḫ̵̀͛I̸̮̤͋_ **

**_̵͍̒̀F̶̱̐́Ų̴̿R̶̳̤I̷̖̐O̷̟͒S̸̨̾̌U̵͉̎͌S̶̡̈ ̵͛͜O̸͙͂͊͜Ç̵̛̜̑C̸͉̰̈̚Ũ̷̼̗͋L̸̟͂͐O̸͔͂̈́S̸̰̔ ̶̲͉̎T̷̨̗̍Ȉ̸̭̤̇M̷̺̈́͝E̵̼̚Ö̴̫́̍_ **

**_̵̢͖̔F̸͔͊R̸̟Ḯ̴̱̑G̷̪E̸͚̽̌O̶̤,̸̮͛ ̸̝͙̑̿Ç̸̫̈̆O̴̳͛Ṛ̸̏ ̷̨̭̕F̶̣̿Î̵̙̭T̵͚̯̕ ̸̞̝̓P̵̻E̵͔̣̕T̸͗̊͜R̵̦̒Ạ̷̣͑ ̷͙̹͒̆_ **

**_̶͓̼͆V̸͉̏͘Ḯ̶̙̻̃Ț̵͘͘͜A̸̘̝̐ ̴̡̯M̷̛̟͒E̷̲̭͂̂A̵͇͑̐ ̷̙̼̑F̵̳̈̅R̸̨͘͘A̴̝͎͗̔C̸͖̼̔͆T̵̤͊Ȧ̵͚̰ ̴̫͖̽Ë̵̤́Š̵̤T̴̢̕ ̷͙̓͋_ **

**_̶͓̄E̷̕ͅT̷̟̱̓̒ ̶͔̈́͠D̸̡̝͠Ė̷̤̖M̴̮͕̃͠I̵̺͖͒S̵̬̔S̶̩͉̅A_ **

**_̵̨̯̉E̴̯͖̒̚T̵̠̩͊ ̶̮͔̓͋P̵̺̻͋̑Ē̵̺̽R̴̮͗D̸͉̫͑I̵̺̻̍̌T̶̞̲͆̽A̶̳͂͑!̷̭͔̔”_ **

There’s some sort of deep, inhuman bellow, and a loud _thud_ that sends tremors through the soil. Wigfrid screams Woodie’s name. Two Survivors down.

There’s more muffled screaming beside Maxwell. Willow is clinging desperately to him, her face buried in his suit as she howls. Webber has managed to crawl up his back, huddled up against him as flat as he can make himself, hissing and shivering violently.

Lightning strikes somewhere close, close enough for Maxwell to feel heat. But not once does he flinch, nor falter in his incantations.

But he was starting to sweat. His legs feel like they’re seconds from snapping under him like dry twigs. His vision wavers and distorts, as if he were trying to stare through the heat haze that rises from certain types of Turf in Summer.

 _“It’s not enough!”_ He can hear Wickerbottom scream over the thunder. _“Maxwell, your magic isn’t strong enough for this! The Shadows are going to go berserk and kill you both before you can finish!”_

“ _Madame,_ I understand your consternation, but don’t distract him! Or they really will go berserk! And that’s what—” Warly quickly scrapes off the Terrobeak from Maxwell’s arm before it can sink its teeth into him and slices through it like butter. “—that is what _we're_ here for!”

More and more Shadows spawn from within Wilson. Terrorbeaks that screech and swirl around the Survivors, sizing up the best places to whet their appetite for flesh. Crawling Horrors that scuttle around like bloated ticks, making warped, distorted growls, trying to take chomps out of legs and ankles and eventually rearing up to take chunks out of anything higher. Mr. Skitts has made himself quite comfy around Wilson’s shoulders, draped over him like a mink stole and rubbing against his cheek with a strange, garbled purr.

Wigfrid, Wickerbottom, Warly, and Abigail circle around Maxwell to protect him. None of the Shadows seem to be hostile toward Wilson. . .yet. But they’re all mostly focused on the magician, now. Not to be outdone, Wes gathers his Balloons and builds a sort of improvised wall around Maxwell and the others, providing another small line of defense. Every little bit of protection mattered when Shadows could teleport after a single hit. When he’s finished, he grabs Wolfgang’s abandoned Ham Bat and starts swinging.

The ground begins to shake again, and somewhere in Willow’s broken mind it registers that Bernie has sensed her distress and become BERNIE!, lumbering around and making that crazed hybrid childlike giggling-animalistic growling sound as he swipes at Shadows. True to Wilson’s word, he was protecting her. . .even though it had to be from Wilson himself, after all.

**_“F̸̨̙̺̳̳̤͖͉̙̥͓̰͖͇̻̬̥̲̥̦̦̐͑̐̒̐͘͠Ŭ̶̗̤̏̈́̌̊͌͝G̢̦̪̭̭͍̮̼̜̺̝̫̲͈̘̘I̴̧̨̢̹̰͔̭͕͈͔̝̪̰̺̣̫̝̙̣͈̺̮͙̮̫̳͇̤̐́̓̒͌͑͛͊̿̃̾̏̂͂̕͘͘Ỡ̷͖̪͕͓̯̅̏̊̈̐̃̔̈̆̈́̐̄̈́͒̑̅̂̆̆̄̿̍̕ ̵̧̧̨̡̧̪͚̱̺͉͎̹̤̭̗̝̗̳̝̤̅͌̾̽͊ͅͅŞ̴͚̳͊̇̉́̆͝I̵̝̅̔͐̀̏̓̐̄̓̈̔̕͝N̴̛͇̺̗̩̳͉̲̩̪͎͙̺̣̬̹̝̦̱͍͓̎́̏̐̃̎͗̄̓̓̽̎̂͋̈́͋̃̾̆͒͘Ë̸̡̨̢̢̡̧̜̼͈̲͉̙͔̣̹̜̣̮̭̟̠̣̥̠͙̠̹̳́͑̃̑̏̊͗̈́̌̈̂̑͘ ̴̧̩͖̬͔̞̲̤̲͕̫̩͈͇̰͔͎̣̗͇͉̫̘̭̍̇̎̋̇̆͌̑̄̄̃̃͗̐͊̚̚̚͠F̸̢̬̟͚̲͕̫͑͐̿̓͑͂̋͆I̷̢̧̧̹̺̙̹̪̫͕̣̫̫͆̐͌̓̄̒̈́͊͋̌́̏̄̏̓̈́̋̂̒͒̕͝͠N̵̳̠̦̮̮̦̭̰͇͙̳̿̄̓̿̄̓̔̽̋͋̒͒̄͗̄̎̈́̂͂̋̕͝͝͠ͅE̵̡̧̡̖̻̻̲̘̝̥͇̫̰͕̩̝̦̹̳̝̱̲͈͑̂̔̈́̌_ **

**_̶̨͈͕̹̬̺̩̠͇̬̣̩̠͉̟͕͋̐̽̂̔̔͆̓̾͋̈̈́͂̐̋͋̃̅̇̅̚͘Ḑ̵̡̨̘͈̻͙̥̞̰̝̳̦͖̥̩̪̰̬̠̯̺̭̺̜͚̊̇̈̉̕͝Ḁ̶͇̥̺͚̺͚̻̈́̄̔̍͗̉̽̈́̈́͘͜͝Ẽ̸̢̺͉̟̘̰̲͖̞̯͔̤̰͍̖̆̎̆͌̒͂̂̈̃͒̈̏͌͗̅̌͘M̸̨̛͍̫̖̼̻̪̙͈͉͔͉̫͉͖̲͗͐̑͌͛͗̒̓̎͛̈̄͒̋̐̾̃̈́͂̉̈́͛̊̕͘̕͜͜Ơ̴̢̹̦̲̜̪͉̫̟͓̰̩͚͙̳͓̥͇̟̙̔̓̂̂̌̍͒͌N̸̛̛̩͙͖̯̙̮̭̥̂͌̏͌́̐̉́̊̔͐̓̈́̂̐̓̈́̚͘͜͝ ̷̢̢͍͇͓̮̰̯̥̭̯̗̺͍͕͕̬̼͎̦̌͂͋̋̏͒̃̈̍̇̌̈́̄̽͆̄͘̚͜͠ͅĘ̸̢̠̗̹͙̳̥̫͖̘͍̫̦͕̪̝̻̯̟̠͇̞̱͙̯̤̭̄̈́̌̇͐͊̈́͛̌̔͠S̷͓͚̘̳̣̣̳̳̔̈́̑̂͑͌͆̆̓͐̊̏͘T̶̛̮̩̝̿̀̿̓̈̀̓̿͗̎̊͘,̸̨̧̞̳̠̮͕̗̊̀̎̀̀͊̋͗̄̄̒̍̽̄̑͘̕̚̕͘͝͝ͅ ̶̝̫̙̭̲̥͚̞͇̒̈́̉̆͂̌̍͑̀̀̽̕͘̚͘̕͝ͅP̶̢̭̠͓̟̻͖͙̍͒̂̌͌̓̉̔̅͑̚͘Ã̸̢̨̨̡̘̮̫͚̫̮͎̞̝̦̙̲̫̖̆̐̐̓̔̂̉͂̿͋͐̃̈́͆̑́̕̕̚͠R̵̡̲̬̹̳̲͎͈̳̓̾̑̿̿̊͐͗̿͐̚̚̕C̵̛̠͎̬̳͍̰̣̳̜̱̹͔͕͓͙̬̟̪̐̄̅͒͗̇͐͗̊͛͆̀̆̊̆͌̈́͛̌̽̿̈́̕̕͠͝ͅͅE̷͙̝̗͚̘̿̔̋̌͑̿̽̈́̍̓̀̊̾͋̈́̒͘͜ͅͅ ̷̞̣̹̝͖̹̮͖̞͇̟͉̯̒̿́͆̌̈͐̋͊̈́̈͜͜͠M̵̟̲͔̙͕͉̫͉̦̫͔̙̘̻̗̈́Í̸̧̛̛͎͚̩͍̹̬̦̜̮͚̙͚̗͈̏͊͒̋̊̈̔͊̉̎́̉̂̿̕͝H̸̛̙̝̝͉̹͐̉̆͆̑̓̓̒̿͑̈́̔̌͒̏̓̕̚͝͠I̶̢͎̲̟̱̮̭̫͉̙̐͑͊̿͗̎̍̀̈́̉̂͗̍̃̌̈̕̚̚̚͘̕͜_ **

**_̵̡̛̛͔̰̹̬̲̻͓͚̉̔̋̃̊̿̄̃̓͛͒͑̽̇͆̑͒̂͌̕̚F̴̨̧̡̢̪̫͚͚̲̺̟̼͚̪̻͕̟̝̻̎́̊͝ͅŲ̷͓̠̰̫͈̺̱̬͇͔͚̦͕̞̗͉͉́̈́́̈R̷̨̡̢̢͖̫͎͉̼̰̥̪̜̤̻̭͎̯̰̲̤̈́̃̓̚ͅǏ̶̡̛͖͎̞̰̠̮͍̝͆̑̂̏͂̈́͑͛́̃̋̂͑̐͑̈͗̏̈͑̐̉͘̕͘͠͝ͅƠ̵̡̧̪̘͕̠̮̘̖̙̹͉̾̿̒̔̆͒͐́̚͜͠S̵̨̧̢̯̥̺̝̭̠̙̦̟̻̰̪̲̖̲̭͙͓̰͖̣̲̻̠̓͑͐̈͗͗̿̔͂̃̂̚͜͝͝ͅƯ̸̙̹̩̪̼͈̄͑͊̍̏͂̎͑̽̋̕̚͝S̸̡̛͉̝̮̳̠̞̤͇̤͉͙̥̟͚̜̘̥̪̝̀̌̓̎̄͌͊̀͊̒̈́̉̋̇̿̐̋͐̕͘̕̚͜͜ͅͅ ̷̦͍͕͒̒̌̑̅͑̈̍̏͊̏͋͐̑̃̑͂͋͑͘͝͠͝Ǫ̵̧͓̭̺̩͕͇͖͈͍̐C̴̨̛̻͚̥͙͈̱̟͔̹̼͈͊̃̽̓͐̽́́̔͛͛͐̓͐̇̌͊͐͌̉̃̆̽̎͑͌̏̚Ç̷̱̖͉̪̝̩̬̮͎̫̺̺̩̘̠͉̜͇̠̤̬̯͚͂̽̐̌̈̂̈́̅̽̈́̃͗̌̾̀̈́̀̌̓̍̚ͅŲ̷̢̨̨̡̢̺̻̘̥̯̰̬͕͖̮̯͔̈́̍̅͊͊̿͋́̋͛̍͆͋̄͊͋̔̕͠Ḽ̶̢̨̡̡͙̺̙̙͕̰̤̝́͒̈́̋͛̓͗̓̓̋͋̓̐͑̅͌̈͒̈́͛̐̐͜͝͝ͅǪ̴̨̼̖̳̟̠̱̪͍̮̲̘̫̳͓̬̋S̸̨͖͙̙̺̑͛̑̎̀̓̃͠͠ ̴̛̭̼͚̥͎̮̮͈̭͙̱͂̂̓͌͑̔̅̇̓͗̃̓́͝͠͝͠T̸̛̛̬̹̬̜̦̗̬̾̍̍̈́̿̽̑̓̄̎̓̐̇̕̕͘̚͠͠Ḯ̴̡̧͊̅̀͐̒̏͆͂̍͂̍̈́̃̾̉̿́̑̋͝͝M̵̡̠͕͌̊̓̎̈͐̂͂Ę̵̨̛̻͔̪̤͎͍̹̟̲͚̩͔̦̗̠̟͔̗͓͙̳̙̂̂̾̾̔̋̉̒̿̃̏̽͒̅̿̈́͌͛̐̍͆̄̕̚̚͜͠͝ͅỎ̸̢_ **

**_̶̧̛̻̪̜̤͚̭̮̗͙͕͍̯̠͚̭͙͍̰͖͚̖̳͓̣̭͂̎̂̒̈́̈̓̆̿̍̋̊͊̀̓̽̈́̇͂͌̑̔̾̚͜͜͝͝ͅF̸̨̨̻̠̞̻̭̻̓̊̏̀̓̿̿͗̐̋̑̾̃͛̌̓͂̑͗͛̚͠R̶̨̨̨̤̟̥̳̻̰̝͎͎̱̝̻̜̮̪̘̫̃͜ͅĮ̵̼̩͙̗̭̖̙̫̜͉͇̥̬̣̯̞̣̇̀̑͋̉́̕̚͝͝ͅĢ̷̛͍̗͍̯̞̲̗̮̠̠̗̠̱̙̪͕̪̙̤̼̜̟̫̌͂̓̓͆̿̀̑̄͑̈́̏͒͘̕̕͘͜Ȅ̴̛͚̜̬̄͌͐͑̾̆̄̅̑̂̚̚͝Ọ̶̬̹̘̥̩̥̉̋͋̃͐͆̈́̇̎͌̿̉̓̈̂̈́̌̈́̒̓̚,̴̨̛̤̘̤̥͋̓̌͛̔̀̊͑̚͝ͅ ̷͔͕̹̟̞̘͇͐͆̄͑͂̏̊̿̄̓̈̈̑C̸̗̱̯͓̲̫̝̯̜͇̹̹̝̠̦̫͚͆̑̃ͅO̴̢̢͚̳̪͙̹͈͙͍̳̟̜̩̗̜͗̈́̊͋̄̌̌͆̏̓̐͂͑̒̓̕͝͝͝Ŗ̴̧̧̞͓͖̝̮̠̠̟̞̜̬͕͈̬̼̭̰̒͐̒͆̿́̈̃̐̈́͂̅͐̆̆͛͗̍͐͘͝͠͝ͅͅ ̷̢̧̡̛̼͙̯͈̪̖͎̳̥̱̻͙͕͓̈́̔͒̂̈̓͒͑̇̋͒̈́̐͜͝͠ͅF̴̧̡̛̰̥̪̲͇͍̜͚̜̫̣̭̗͖̹͈͉̥̞̩̝̎͂͒̈́̎̀͗̄̈̈́̋̐͛̿͘͝͝ͅÎ̴̛͕̹͕̄͒̔̌̊̆́̽̎̋͆̓̇̒̄̈́͊͛̏̒̓̿̍̕͝͝T̴̰̰̾͘͝ ̸̡͕̙̳͚̲̗͙̣̰̰̻̲̱̞̦̞̙̬̭̻̩͎̝͙̂̈́͊͆͌̇̑̇̿͘͝P̸̡̡̡̼͈͎͖͓͎͈̻̪͙̮͇̥̘̥̺͖͚̝͛̽̐̿̒̾̓̓̍̋͝E̶̡̡̠̣̮̱̰̮̤̭̦͇̤̥̫̫̼͊̋T̸̨̛͖͇̻͈͍̖͆̇̑͒̐͐̂̈́̈́̉͂̉̍͂̿̄͒̕̚͝ͅṞ̵̨̡̧̨̫̙̹̱̙̗̗̖̦̲̱̥͚͔̤̠̂̈́̈́̀̎́͗͌͗̍͆͋̚͝Ȃ̵̡̨̳͎̱͍̫̀̂̅͂͐͋͐͗̊̓̐͑͘͝͝ ̴̧̨͓̠̯̲̞̹͎͈̮̞̘̮̥͖͇̙͉̜͕͈̞̳͓͓̝̝̑̔̃̕͠ͅ_ **

**_̶̢̛̮͇͇͚̩͙̺̠͍͈͖͙̙̩̦̖͕͕͙̹͈̞̭̦͖͖̐̔͋̂́̎̈̍̉̈́̍͒̏͐̎̒̐̏̚͘͜V̴̡̛̛̛͚̩̘̹̖͎̰̲͑̌͌͗̓̀̋̃̉̈́͝Į̸̢̦̗͓̮̙̟͕͓̬̯͖̯̗̬̫̹̝̬̠͔̝͔̈́́̔͆͊̒̚͜ͅT̷͖̤͚̯͙̤̫͉̀A̴̦̯̮̭̬̙͆̀́̈́̂͛͐̆̾̓͒͐̀̓̔ ̶̧̺̖̩̜̰̞͚̙͇͕͔̳̯̪͐͒̓́̔̓̿͒͑̂̃͜͝͝ͅM̸̧̖͙̣̬̦̤͔͕͈̤͔̺͈̟̥̼̰̮̳̅͌̆̒̐̿̂͐́̔͜͜͠É̵̯̯̙̣̒̈́͌͠A̸̛̛̼̺͙͔̠̝̼͓͉͛͋͋̎̾͗̒̒̾̽̉̆̍̃͌̓̚ ̶̛̟̻̘ͅF̷̧̰̜̬̭͕̯̝̲̮̮̱͍̗͍͚̱̖͖̘͊͐̾̉͜ͅͅR̴̒̿͛̂̎͌̕ͅȦ̴̱̹͎͎̙̰̩͓̥̏́ͅC̵̪͓͖͉̣̘͙͈͍̲͋͗̽̐̍̐͝T̵̢̧̯̭͉̭̺̘͉̠͈̺͕̜̦͔̒͊͐͋̃͛̂̽͊̔͋̚͘͝A̷̡̡̡̮̥̫̹͉̬̻͗̿̂̃̉̉̓̇̑̀̂̑̿̋̆͜͝ ̴̢̛̼͈̘͖̮̭̤̙̟̙̦̜̱̩͕̺̹̰̝͙̰̙͎̘͙̠͋̇͌̑̊̈́̓͒̈́̆́͆͜͠Ȇ̶̡̡̨̢̯̜̯͚͍̱̫̪̰͓͖̖̦͓̻̩͚̰̩̟͉̘̊̽̃̈́͛͐̆͆̐͂͒̋͗̂̈́̕͝͝S̵̢͖͙̲͔̥̪̜̩͇̙͊̆̌̈́̒͋͆̋̂͊̓T̸͉̾̆̌͆̈́̔̊̈́͋͑͂͝ ̷̨̢̛̛̼͉̱͚̼͓̲̭͕͚̘͇͙͓̞̙̼̺͕̺̙̜͖̦̝̈́̍̿̽̾̈́̅͗͐̏͒̒͋̽̎̔̃̄̕̕͜͝͠_ **

**_̷̧̢͈͉̖̯̪͈̪̱̲̫͉̹̣́̎͆̇̉̑͑̂́͂̽̾̎̔̅̒͒̓͌͗͘̕̕̕̕͝͝ͅE̵̢̧͚̫͎̻͎̻͎̦̦̫͍͈̬̩͙͖̮̊̓̈́̐Ţ̴̡̞̼̙͇͓̩̩̦̫̜̗̰̜̫̣͚̠͉̬̤̂͑̋̈͌͗̍̍̍̔̍̈́͒̃̈́̓̾̋̈́̽̂̅̏͛̚͝ͅ ̶̨̨̢̼̳̟̙͖͇̤̟̳̹̣̺̲̜̼̯̔̎̓̌͗͑̄́̕͜͜ͅD̷̛̫͎͇͆͋̐͊̈́̿͒̔̌̈̈̎̾̑͂̾̌̃̊͒̒̄̓̚̕͠͝Ȩ̴̨͓͕̘͔̟̣̯͎͚̻̙̙̥̙͕͎̫̞̺̲͍̞͚͒̌͠ͅM̵̺͉̪̠̥̭̳̫͉̄͊͗̇͘I̵̩̰̣̻̺̙̗̯͚̞̣̰̻̱̱̰͚̽Ş̶̨̧̧̢̣̳̣̫͕̲͕̣̘̝͎̩͔̪͍̳̹̪̩͕̟̇̄͊͠S̵̰̥͇͈̹̣͚̆̈̂̄́̃̇͛̓͒͂͊̂̕͘͘̕͠͝A ̶̧̨͎̼͍̳̦̤̰̤͚̝͓̱̲̼̜̺͇̥͍̐̿̍̆̓̈́̽̅͌̈́̆͆̏͊̿͌͂̽̌̐̅̈́̈́̈́̚̚̚͜_ **

**_̶̨̥̜͕͍̻̥̦̝̯̬͌̋͐͂̓̈̐͊̍E̶̡̞̙̳̺̣̣͆̃̉̒̆̆̕͜͜͝Ṫ̴̤̮͠ ̵̧̖̲̯̯̰͙̋̅͗͑͛͆̄̐́̔̓͂͋̔̀̒̈́̔̍̿̾͗̈́̕͠͝͝P̷̨̛̘̣͈̖̪͎̝̼͔̜̟̪̤͎͕̪̈́̽͊͂̎͂͐͑̀̽̏͒̃͋͑͛͂̕̚̚Ę̵̧̧̢̢͉̫̖̝̯̻͇̩̦̞̼̹̝͉̤͇̍͐͊̅̒̑̒͆̂͌̈́͗̄̿͘͠͝ͅR̷̡̢̗̼̝̤̥̹̞̳̖̠͉̠̣̝̙̟̫̼̰̟̥̘̱̭̮͈̈̍̿̌̎̑̉̇́̾̀̿̒͗̀̌̀͗̃͐̕̚͝͠͝͝Ḑ̸̖̩̗̩͇͉͔̭̘͐̎̕Ḯ̶̢͚̲̥̣̻̯̼̟̲̣̥̖̪͙͕̭̤̻͖̥̫̤̙͙͍̝̻̠̿̓̒̄̀͐̎̏̈̓͒͠T̸̠̺͋̃̉̉͑͌̉̋̎͛̓̏̀͗̂̚͜͝͝A̶̡̨̧̢̨̨̢̡͍̭͎͇̰̼̺̹̙͉͈͈̰̩̪̘̮͑͊̅̓́̄̀̉̂̋͒̊̈́̈́͂͊͌̈́̄͝͠͠!̴̢̢̨̛̳͓̖̰̦̼̦̟̥̥̻̣̟̖̪̲̭̞͇͖͈̝̰̪̋̔͐̾̒̏͊̓͌̈́̈́̊̑̈́̊̓́̍͌̈̽̊̄͠͝͝”_ **

̵̡̬̱̤̫̻͉̼̰͎͔̪̣̻̼̱͙̺̖͗͊͝

It sounded like Maxwell was taking the patented Higgsbury approach, now—scream at something until it stopped doing whatever it was it was doing. None of the Survivors had heard him chant this long before, and while everyone else had long since been sapped of the last vestiges of their sanity—only Wendy and Wickerbottom seemed to still possess some level of awareness—it was beginning to visibly take its toll on Maxwell. And he already looked like a walking corpse on a _good_ day. Or a vampire, if one asked Webber. (And Webber had yet to be convinced Maxwell wasn’t.)

Or maybe Maxwell was just trying to make himself heard over the frantic screaming of the damned, the unearthly cries of the Shadows, the rolling thunder, the wind howling through the trees and the snapping of their boughs, the shrieks of T̸̢̡̲̱̥͕͍̲̬̿͐͛̌̈́h̴͔͍̝͍̱͍͒̉̓̄͛̈́͝ẹ̸̛͉̗̓͐̀̿̈́̇͌̒̓ͅm̷̡͍̟̙̟̲͕̹̣̖̲̯̋̓̎̊̍̂͊͐̍͘͜͠͝. And though Higgsbury had dutifully set up Lighting Rods in strategic places around the camp, the lightning is still striking far too closely.

As if on cue, a nearby tree actually _explodes_ in a searing flash of heat and splintering bark, and its remains go up in flames. As least it would provide a greater light source should the Night Hands come out.

But then the surrounding trees start making some sort of terrible, unnatural, rocky crunching sound, all at once.

They’re _petrifying._

**_“F̷̧̢̡̧̨̡̧̲͍̞̣̰̰̳̜̦̳͚̳̠͙̞̙̠̦͖̥͈̰͔̘̮̗̖̫͕̙̬̹̤̱̦̪̰̠̜̯̙͚̱̤̞͕̺͓̱͖̖͔̮͎̣̥̗͖̱̉̍̆̂͗̌̾͌̐̈̎̋̑̑́̃̒̓̉̇͊̄̐̽̆̈́̑̍̀̄̔́̂̎̅̽̔̆̍̆̔̽̉̂͋͐̇̿̂̅͆̅́̄̋͌̐͑̀́̄̽̓͆̉̿̈͆͒̏͗̋̈́̎̽̚͘͘̕̚̕͘̚͘͜͜͠͝͠͠͠ͅU̷̡̨̧̡̨̧̹̤͚͎͓̪͖͔̤͍͉̘̘̭͉̦̰͔̦̙̪̗͍̳̩̖͔̰̖̝͔͖̣̬͓̬̬̘̦͇̫̞͓̹̭̖̰͚̤̮̩̥̜̯̦̘̻͖̠̦̠̪̯͇̜͎̹̣̰͉̘͍̙̯̮͈͓̻̜̰͍̘̳͉̯̲̗̣̘̐̈́͐̽̃͑͆̀͑̂̒̈́̑͒͐́͊͂̇͌̈́̀͂̓̒͛̋͌͊̎͌̔̋̋͛̉̌̐̋͑̓̑̌̏̚͘͘̕͘̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͠͝ͅͅͅGĮ̶̧̧̧̢͉̗͓͔̬͎̠̗̬̰͖͉͍̰̝̯̬̳̤̦̼̞̮̟̗̗̥̲͙͍͖̗̝͚̦̟̼̤̼̲͕̰̥͉̤̙̱̘̦̫͉͚̻͐͆̌͆͒́̌́́̆̈͗̎̏̎͗͛́̈́͑̊͑̍̓͆̐̈́̉͛̇͛̏̀̈́̍̈́͒̓̑̅̆̅͛̉͗̍̌́̄̆̽̃̓͑͌̽̑̐̉̀̾͋͆̆̌̎͛͂͛͐̃͑́̿̆̇͑̈̀̆̓̈͂̋̒͐͘̕̕̚͘̚͝͠͝͝ͅÓ̶̧̨̡̨̢̨̹̺͓̬̤̘̱̳͉͎͖̩͍͇̗̩͎̞͈͙̥̬̖͇̦͓̯̞͚͚̖̝̼͖̜̣̳̟̟̯͈̰̱̫̯͎̱͎̟̲͓̬͓̙͈̤̅̄̆̊̿̐̈́̄̋̂̈́̓̑͆͊̂̄̈́̒̓̅̀̈́̉̍̇͆́̇̽͛̊̑͋̀͊͌͊͗͛̾̕͘̕̕͘͘͝͝͝͝͝ ̵̡̡̧̺̲̠͙͇̼͕̩̮̩̤͚̬̙̹̞̤̮̺̝̞͙̥̮̻̹̯̰̖̓̌͠S̶̨̧̨̡̢̧̧̧̧̨̨̡̞͙̘̪͚̭̣̜̱̟̹͈̬͍̜͉̘̖͔̹̳͈̥͔͓̬̼̘̹̖͍̤͎͉̞̯̝͓̫̳͇̯̖͓͖̠͙͇͔̫̪̙̭͍̥̻͎͖̻͎̼̤̟̦̥̙̱͎͍͋̉̇̽̓͂̓̓͗͋̈́̓͂̄͊̾̀͐̓̇͐̀̉̋̓̋̈́̏̈̉̀̀̀͘͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅÎ̸̧̢̢̡̧̛̲̹̳̰̯̟̻̜̟̪͍͍̻̘͚̗͉̠̭̣̳̫͚͈͕͈̜̥͓̖͕̠̙̤͚͔͖̥͚͉̱̣͈̗̦͈͍̭͙͓̘͓̳͖͔̻̦̤̺̲̪̭͖̅̒̉̽͆̾̈́͆̌̔̓̐̔̿͑̈́͂̐̿̈́̇̅̇͂̉̚̕͘̕͜͝ͅͅN̶̡̢̡̯̬̯͕̤͎̳͖̙̦̘̹͉͙̠̫̦̪̹̦͖͉̭̱̹̲̗̰̘̺̩͙̫̤̗͖̲̽̇̆̒́̄͐͑̆͊̒̈́̊̾̑͂͐̅͋̃̾̋̀̇̊̂̍͒͋͊́͗̈́́͒͛̓̉͛̕̕̚͜͜͝͝͝ͅͅË̶̢̡̨̡̡̨̨̼̮͙̥̱̱̫̠̲̗͖͔̞̗̟̰̪̰̞̪͕͇͚̪̼̬̤̜̬͍̙͕̼̜̯̩̪̤͓̥̘͚̼̘̲̳̬̮͚̝̗́͛̊͑̍̀͂̀̽̌̽̎́̅̂́̑̾̂̑͗̔͆͐̒̽͆̉͘͘̚̚͜͜͜͠͝͝ ̴̧̧̡̛̛̬͇̘̳͉̭̤̦̗̦͈̤̘̦̺̹͖̳̠̼̠͉̠̯͉̳̥͚̖͉͕̬̼̙̺̲̰͉̙̙̠͎͇̯̰̫̼̬͇̞̣̜̟͉̺̙̘̠̣͈̗̹͚̈́̎͊͑̄͑̏̔́̿͆̈́̊̏̉̓̆̑̓̈́̒̈̇̎͑̔̎͛̿̉̚͜͠ͅͅF̴̢̧̢̢̧̢̧̪̖͎̫̤͚̤͙̥͈͍̟̥̟̭̞̼̗̙͕̠͈͕͖̼̺̱̬̻̤̞͓͎͔͖̭̝̜͕̫̻̟͕̙̝͇̩̰͖͙̹͍̮̝̮͈̖̩̹̙͈̯̌͌͋͑͂́̏͊̽͒͊̌̆͂͑̐̓͛̏̌͑̈́̈́̈̎̀̎̀̓̂̓̉̌͗̎̄̓̑̓̉͌̉̇͑̓̆͋̽̏͗͐͊̃̋̀̀̎̎̿̓͂͒̓͗̒̊͒̆̕̕͘͘̚͘̚̚͜͜͜͝͠͝͠͝͝Ĭ̷̢̞͚̠͓̠͎̬͔̥̖̘̟̫̦͇̾͜N̷̡̢̻͖͚̫̗̘̻̠͇͓̝̖̹͉͇̥̫̻͍̠̦̖̙͙̣̺͕̝̞̘̹̳̖͇̱͙̲̯̹͕̔͑͆̈̓͒̇̅͘̕ͅE̸̡̧̢̡̢̨̧̨̡̢̡̢̡̨̢̢̛̛̛̛̳͇͍̘̠̯͈͔͙̘͇͈̦̯͉̙̟̫̲̪̼̤̥̺̹̣̲͓̝̣̼͍̙̣̼̣̗͔̹͎̱̱̤̞̜̩͍̘̣̰̺̙̥͇̖̰̠̱̙̺̥̙̝̱̪̼̫͖̰͖̱̩̦͐͊̒̐͋̉̔̉̈̓͋̃͊͐̐̄̃́͆̅̽̍̆̇̍̊̀͊̈̉͒̍͛͗́̆̊̐͗̎̋͐͆̇̅͐͒͘̚͘̚̕̕̕̚̚̕͜͜͠͠͝͝͠ͅͅ_ **

**_̶̨̨̨̛̛̟̮͍̫̤̥̪̤̞̠̮͔̺̯͖͔͕̲̲̫̰̭̯̳̦̖̺̭͍͚͖̺̹̞͓͉͙̪͂̆̆̋͆͛͛̊̾͑̾̎̆̓͊̊̈́̈́̽̏̋̋̃̈́̔̃̍͊͌͊̂͆̓́͛͌̾̍̾̑̈́́́͌̔̈́̍͌̈́̉̌͂̾̆̚̚̚̚͘͜͜͜͝͝͝ͅͅḐ̴̨̘̫̦̱͈̽̉̐̿̔̿͐͛̅̔̆̓̾̽̈̈̊͋͋͑̐̓̅̈́̅̽̈́̉̉̍̓͒̓͋̿̅̈́̃̽̍̎̽̚̕̚̚͝͝͝͝͝A̸̧̡̗͖̰̳̝͇͉͎̹̦͎̩̱̹̙̝͈̱̩͖͔̟͉̻̮͚̥͒̓̃͆̐͑͌͆̈́̍̏͊͋̄͂̎͊̏̈́̾͐͋̓͛̿̈̂̌̽̐͒͑̊͒͊̾͐̑̈́̈́̈͋̾̇͑͌̅̍̏̌͛͂̈́̀̈́̏͗͊̀͋͗͋̔̒͐̿͋̆̏̎̑̌̏̉̕̚͘̕͘͘͘͠͝͝͝͠ͅȆ̶̡̡̡̢̻̰̭̜̱̗͚̫̰͔̤̬̣̣̯̙̣̪̞͇̼̦̭̫̜̮̪̖͙̻̻̠̦̘̗̝̭͖̥̳͉̪̺̘̙̻̗̗̦̳̠͇͊̓͗̀̀͒̑͆̈́͆̑̆͌̿̉̍̍̎̓̾̉̿̚̕̚͝͝͝ͅM̸̨̢̨̛̛̞͙̦̰̲̭̥͚̙͉͖̼̲͍̥͎̩̭͙̤̣͙̞͋͑̂̄͂͆͒̀̎̐͊̍͊̋͑̋̈͋̈́͗̆̈̐̾̿̕̕̚̚̕͜͜͠͠͝͠͝Ơ̶̧̨̡̧̢̧̨̡̮̯̘̰͕̻̜̫͕̙̩̜̟̭̱̦̫͇̥̰̞̫̟̻͎̞̹̥̹̻̞͉͎̞͚̦̹̜̣̲̗̯̩̮̘̦̫̤̞̲̤̠̹͉̺̻̭͔̺͑̾̇̽͐̂̈́̇͂̎̒̄͑͐̈́̈́̆̐̅͛́̈̿̾̊̏͛̽̽̑͛̀̊̓͐̈́͗̄̌͛́͋̅̒̄̑̈́̿̽̓͛̃̈́͛́̈̋̔̈́̈̌͛̔͐̀̌̏̍̂̋̕̕͘͜͝ͅN̶̡̨͚̲̘̹̲̙̜̫͐͋̈̒̒̌͊̅̅͌͌̎̉̊ ̵̡̧̧̧̡̢̲̺̰̠̣̲̻̪̤̹̥̯̼͍̩̣̝͇͈̱͓̘͉̱͙͙͍͈̜̭͔̪̣͈̘̗͍̲̹͙̼̖̘̺̰̙̯̠͉̪̗͍̲̹͍̘͈̲̻̪̜͇̼͈̭̭̳̼̠͉͎̺͓̟͉̹̿͌̑̍̈́̋̓͊̿͑͐́́̊͂͑͌͆̔̄̋̓̈́̍͑͗͆̋̋̓̔̇̄͐̄͂̀̈̚͘̕̚͜͜͠͠͝ͅͅͅÈ̴̢̥͎̭͍͕̲̩̩̘̟̱̼͙̟͉̮̰͉̖̖̞̙̻̘̱̏̐͜S̴̡̡̨̨̙͍̼͔̭͍͙̯̲̠̺̼̺̜̦͍͍̦̖̩̤̼̥̙͔̑͂̾̓̓̉̈́̈̇̈́̈͋̽̈́̐̈͋͑͂̈̎͊̓́̂̾͛̓̅̋͑̄͑̾̽̈̆͗͊̇̔̏́̚͘̕͘͜͠͝͠͝͠ͅT̴̢̨̛̛͔̜̖͓̰̙̰̯̬̣͚̤͚̠͉͚̻̪̪͍̼̫̦̖̫͕͓͍̹̗̬̈́͗̃̾̍͑̑̔̆̅̂̈̈́͋͗͐̓̓̓̿̇̍̔͊̾͌̈́̅̈̑͐̓̆̅̽̍͂̈́̓̎̑̓͋̈́̀̒͛̇͌̏͊̈́̓̂̎͌̎̿̌̔͌͆̔̚̕͘̕̕̕͜͠͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͠,̷̧̢̡̧̢̰̦͓̣̖̮̜̱̝͈͓̗̟̯̺͉̳͚̼̜̯̠̱͉̱̫̮̱̞̫͇̝̹͍̠͖͍̜̼̠̠͚̬̺͈̼̦͓͇̜̗͖̳̞̲̤͎̳̗͕̦̯̺̲̠̭̥̮̯̞̟̦͈̺̤̲̗͉̠͕͉̮̟̣̫̯̗̼͌̑̍̎̈́̆̈̽̑̊̔͐̀͌͆̉̇̉̄̋͒̄̋͌̆͊̅̒̐̑͂̃͒͋͆͌́̈́̃͂͗͗͛̒̈͐̏͒̋́͋̓̃̈́̓͒͒͌̑͆̾͊̾̽̅̕̚̕͘͘͜͝͠ͅͅ ̴̢̖͓̜͔̲͚͙͔̣͔̯̦̫̃͒͒͆̓̂͑̈́̓͌̋͊̄͂̓͌̔͛̂̋͒̈͑̿̄̋̏̄̒̎͋̐͌̂̀̐̓̓͊͋͌͂̓̇͒̔̾͗̏͒͗̓̈͋̉́͐͊̍̅̑̀̋̈́̑̅̏͂͑͐̕̚̕̕͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅP̶̡̢̧̨̢̧̧̛̫̝͖̝͚̜̮͓͓͚̣͕͕̦̲͔̲̼̤͓̼̲̩̤͎͖͎͈̩̻̹̯̜̮̮̝̳̜͔̝͖̻̘̞̹̥̳̙͔̩͎̙̭͎̝̺̙̞͙̝̥͔͈̝͈̩͉̰̹̖̘̤̞̠̩̲̥͓͇̠̯̩̻̒̇̂̅̈̓͑̃̒͂́̽̓̔̆͊̍͛̾̃͘̕͜͜͝͝͠ͅĄ̴̢̧̢̡̨̢̡̧̢̪̤͇̙̙̗̠͍̱̣͉͖͈̼̞͔̟̤̬͕̰͕̻͍͎̘̱̻͇͎̩̙̮͈̩͎̳̫̣̪̳̟̦̫̜͚̳̤͉̪̯̫̘̦̮͍̤̱̝̣̤̯̤͉̥̰̖̖̳͕̠̥̹̭̪̦͕̖̭̤̜̜͖̫͈͓̝͖͑̃̏͐̍͊͒͐̍͆͂̀͂̑̓̇̈́̂͛̽̊͗͘̚͘͜͜͠Ṟ̵̡̧̛̛͎͙̗̫̙̫͕̭̗͉̝̟̬͖̗̭̳̮͂͂̀̐͗̆̍͐͋̌͒̇̓̄̇̄̊̈́̓̌̍̽̊͛̌̎̎̈́̂́͌̇̏̿͋̿̿͂͆̈͌̈́̂̚̚̕͘͘̕͜͝͠͝͝͠͠͠ͅC̵̢̢̨̧̡̛̞̺̭̼̬̪͇͉̦̞̺̟̗̙̟͈̱̗͖̥͍͇͌͒̈͑̇̑͊̅͐̔̓̒̋͛͋̊͛̈͗͒̐͗̑̋̏̍̓̍̈́͛̏͐̊́̈̋̌̔͆̇͂́̽͊̊̅͗́̿́̊̉̍̀̔̆̌͒̀͆̏̚̚̚̚͘̚͘̚͝͝͠͝͠E̷̡̨̧̧̛͍̮͈̜̼̦̝̳͓͇̼̟̪̤̣̟̼̭͈̼͙͔͎͚̮͚̒͛̀̄̿̀̃̓̋͑͒̊̊̒̏̃͑̆͋̈̈̈̇̇͊̓̽̂͋̈́̓̿̐͆̏̓̆̂̓͆̃̑̈͒́̀͆̿̄͋̋̍̓͂͗̈̈͗̾͒̍͒͊̈͊̂͊̔͐͂̐̿͒͒̎̕̚̕̕͜͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅ ̷̨͎̱̖͉̜͚̥̹̥̗̖͓͖̻̞͍̝̱̱̮̦̭̖̝͔͓͖͍̰̪̠̳̯̱͕̺̞̩̤̖͙͈̰̟̩̣̥̭̦͎͂̊͂͌̐͐͆̓̓̿͗̅͊̕͜ͅͅͅṂ̶̛̛̖̱̝̝̫̻̳̮̬͈͓̪͆̓̈́̔̎̍͗̾͌̔̌̒̅̉̎͌̏̽̑̑͛́͒̆̐̏̀̔̃̈́͑̀͂̆̓̕͘̚͝͝I̴̢̢̡̢̢̢̢̧̛̛̛͇̼͚̫̞͇͍̯̼̰̬̞̗̯̪̹͎͇̟̫̮̩̬̮̣̤̘̞̞̹̰̜̫͕̤͙̗̜̖̟̞̟̝̦̖̰͇̺̜͚͈̟͊̌͛́̽́͌̔̇̈́͂̄̐̈́͐̑̒̌̄͂͆͂̾̈́͐̈́̾͋̎̊̑̈́̓̑̾̎̊̈́̒͌͋̋̏̐̽͒̆̈́̀̊̊̔̃̏̌͌̌̉̄͊̋̿̊̒̄͆̑̈́́́́̾̈́̔̍̓͛̈̏̀̐͗͊͘̚̕̚̚̕͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝ͅḨ̶̧̧̨̨̡͕̬̹͎͙͇̪̬̬̹̼̜̗̭̗͙͕̙̦̜̯̲͙̼̯͇̩̘͈͙̩̻͍͍͚̻͍͔͍̗̳̮̰̩̽̑̐̐̽̔̾̚̚͜͜͜I̶̡̨̡̧̢̧̡̛̛̪̯̙̝̦̖̼̣͙̬̻̙͕͕̥̤̹͎̭͔͇̦̦͉͙̺̹͕̥̬̤̟͇̹͈͍̪̺͓̠͇̘̻͓̩̮̩̘̬͖͚͔̣̮͈̻͈̺͎̬͔̪͖͙͎͉̗͎̮̝̳̲̱̜͉̠͚̲͚͚̭̤̘̔͊̐̈́̽͗̑̏̆̌̈̓̓͒͆̄̆̈́̊͒̽̄̏̎̔͊̄̽̌̑̍̑͌̌͊̇͗̍̈́͒͌͊̒̾͗͗̍͘̕͘͜͝͝ͅͅ_ **

**_̵̡̡͈̗̥̹͈͍̐̍̅̂̈̈́̈́̏̈́̽̌͒̊̊̓͋́̇̄͝͝F̵̢̧̡̡̨̢̡̛̛̝̦͔͇̖͍̹͓̥̝̭̳̗̰̰̙̻̫̗̯̣͔̹̞̞̮͔͈̮͍̪̘̫̯͚͙͇̬̯̩̩̬̳͇̞͇̩͎͙̬͆̓̎̿͛̏͋̓̈́̒͆͆͊͐̑̈́̅̇̈́̆̆̈́͑͐̌̇̈́͐̇͗͊̉̂̉̔̊̇̑̊̾̈́̃͋̏̈́̓̓̅̿́͆̾̃̈́̋̐́̈́̔̈́̈̔̒̄̍͂̒̋͂̈̇͐̄̔͘͘͘̕͜͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅU̶̪̩͙͇̪̲̼͉͍̾͊̒̐̂͑̑̒̚͠R̷̢̡̡̡̡̧̧̛͇̜͇͔̣̠̥̳͙͓̖͉̹̣̤̺̲̯̣͔͖͙̬̱̜͙̘͈̦̮͚̬͍͍̱͎̝̲̹̱̣͖̖̤̖̙̞͓͔̟̝̲̰͚̳̣͚͚̮̹͈̯̲̘̖̍̔͗̃̎̾̑͊̉͑͂̅̀̕͜͜͜͜͠ͅÌ̷̧̢̨̢̨̢̧̟̦͉͚̲͕̫̤̞̩̫̥̪̠̘̱͙̰̮͖̩̘͎̝̠̥̟̯͈̯̪͔͉͉̣̞̟̲͓̜̙̥͙͈̲͖̠̦̖̤̪̱̱̟͚̠̝̘̱̜̤̤̈́̇̓̒̐͊̀͑̍̌̈́͌͑̓̃͛̓̔̽͒͛̊̏̓̋̌̓̔̒́́̾̊͊̌̆̀͊̎̅̐̎͒͆̊͂̒̚̚̚̕̕͘̚̚͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠Ơ̵̢͙̗̜̦̻͚̲̦̪̘̼̣̪͚̜͖̭̣̱̝̳͔̍̓̌͗̇͌̍̌͜ͅŚ̸̨̨̡̨̧̢̡̡̧̹̻̳̻̤͚͚͖̞̬̖̰̥̻̹̣̰͈̜̹̹̠̭͙͚͙͍̺̘̟͕̒͜͜Ư̸̧̢̢̨̨̨̢̨̡̧̛̛͓̼̝̤̝͍̮̙͕̥̠̘̪͖̥̭͉̪̰̯͈̯̞͚̤̟̞̫̝̪̬̙̤̺̬̞̹̭͙͖̝̣̭̥͖͖̤͓̫͈͔̹̣̳̱͙̟̭͎͈̲͍̹̺̝̼͉̱̗̥̟͎̻̞̰̞̊͗͋̾̋̍̒̾͌̈́́͆̆͂̋̾̉̾̉͛̾̓̇̈́̈͗͒͆̍͐̊̆̾̽̕̕͜ͅͅŞ̶̡̨̛̯̘̗̪͔̭̘̥̞̰͉͉̩̦̗͍̥̲̭̠̦̣̪̫̗̬͖͎̫̀̒̑͋̾̅̾̌̄̽̒̐̅̈̂̃̈́̄̐̈̅͒̆͑͊̓͛͛̓͂͆̃̚͘̚͜͜͝͝͝ ̵̡̨̧͔̙͉̗̩̻̪̲̟͓͍̭̜̩̳̼̪͍͔̠͓̘͉͎͖̭̞̠̟̬̜̟̯̖̩̹̥͍̻̝̞̱̱̗̱̲̫̖̗̼͙͉͖̟̝̲̮̬͕̲̫͙͉̬̱̟̝̖͕̝̭͙̞͓̖̥͍̥̞͓̰̬̯̈́͌̂̆͊̈́̏̽̑̾͛́͑̒͛͑̏̿͆͋̒̌͋̀͑͗̈́̔̀͗͑͋̈͂͒̄̆̓̈́͗̋̚̕̕̕͜͜͜͝ͅͅͅO̶̧̧̧͖̲͙̘͚̭̰̭̯͓͇̯̬͈͙̥͕͓̲̘̤̜̯̤͇̥̩̳̱͙̼͇̲̼͈̲̬̼̥̩̯͈̟̳̲͇̤̝̲͇̫͖͎͕̼͓̘͍̟̥͉͇̼͖͍͇̻̭̺̯̥̭͌͋̈́̿̄̓̚͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅͅČ̵̛̛͚̺̦̖̬̰͈̫̹͇͔̬͙͈͕̫͓̞̝̇͑̅̉̄̍̅͊̈̈́͐͌̎̋͒̃͋͒̀̀̿̎̾͛̔̈̽͂̄͆̀̓̇̾̾̏̾͒͆̇͊̎̎̇̔̈́͒̓͗̎̍͗̍̆̀͌̂͛̚̚̚͘͘͜͝͝͝͝C̴̢̧̧̨̧̡̛̛͇̳̝̫͉̻͔͈̰̳͓̗͕̮̪͈͓̟̥̲̼̭̰̮̘̻͖̺͍̱̘̱̱̬̬͖̮͍̳͍̙̳͈̩̪̈́̅̓̂͑̌̍̅̓̀͒̇̇͒̀̕͘͜͝ͅͅͅƯ̶̧̡̛̛̖̟̣͓̻̰͖̙̮̳̫͚̈́̈́̎̄̋͌̃̾̆̿͑͌̔̌̐̐̔̄͌̿̉͂͂̎͑͂͐̈́̇͐͆̾̊̐͆̌͋͒̌̀͛̽͗̊̀̈́̐͆̒̒̅̆̈́͋̃͑̿̈́͊͆͂͌̇̾̈́̽͆̄̍͂̄̉͐̆̓̍̐͗̈́͊̆͑͑̕̚̚̚̕̚̕͜͠͠͝͝Ļ̴̢̨̢̨̫̺̲̝̪͉͚̠̦̖̺̰͕̻͉̯̝̲̱̙͈̗͈̩̟̤͍̝̹̬͚͎̤̮̣̞̜̫͍̝̺̩̤̠̜̗̘̼̪̟̯͉͖̫̞̲̤̩̳̳͍͖̟̙̤̬͚̪̼͈̟̟͕̏͛͐̈̓̈́̑̌͑͊̍̈́͋͂̎̎̄̑͋͆̊̌͆̉̄̇̍͑̋̆̀́̆̒̄̽̒͛͂̕̕͘͘̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͠͝Ơ̷͙̦̩̞̓͑́̉͑̂̉̊̓̇̑̌͌̆̄̇̈́̾̅̌̓̓̀͌̈́̃͌̾̊̌̈͌͆͝Ş̷̡̡̧̰̖̰̜̹̳̠̗͙̭̝͙̯̮̹̟̠̰̥̪̠͓̟̪͎̯̱̻̗͉̐̒̑̋̽͗͆̊͑̽̔̓̆̾̽̇̏̍̆͑̂͗͊̈́̾͗̓̆̿̍̔̚͘͜͝ ̵̡̨̢̡̧̨̨̡̨̡̧̡̛̛̝̭̬̥̤̰̭̬͙̣͖͍͎̞͇̱̯͓͖̳͖̦̺̰͇̪̫͙̫̖̺̲̻͖̞͍̘̺̬͕͓̥̫͕͎̪̟̥̲͖͈͔͕̼̫͇̦̪͍̞̜̭̲̗̠̲̳̠̜͍̟̟͉͚̙̗̭̹͉͓̦̩͔̯̲̣̩̺̩͇̙͒̐̈́͒̔̾̐̒̿͆͒̏͆͘̕͜͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅT̶̡̜̱͍̳̘̬̗̙̮͖͓̺̫̺̜̪̓̑͋̓͆́̿͌̇̃͒͆̿̐̿̕̕̚̕͝͝Ỉ̶̡̢̧̢̧̨̱͓̗̳̦̱̳̲͕̺̯͚̘̩̗͈̯̼̭̥̺͎̣͙̠̭̟̞͔̤̗͙̯͇̲͔̣̻͍͖͉̫͓͕̝̬̹̦̹̼͈̞͍̬̘͔̝͙̰̤̪̾͋́̀̀͗̈͆́͐̈́͑̋͂́̌̽̅̉͒́̑͐͛͋͌̆̽̑̉̈͘͜͜͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅM̷̡͚̯̖̺̳͖͚̳̜̪͈̘̬̳͉̙̼̙̲̟̘̫̲͚͉͇͖͙̥͇̖̱̫͓̗̘͔̘̩̥̜͚̘̤̬͌̉̂̀̽̓̀̂͐̌͌͐̅̆̓́́̉̄͌̍̉͐͐̃͛͗̿͛̉̕ͅͅȨ̴̧̢̧̢̨̨̨̢̧̡̡̢͇̗̮͕͉̦̗̦̫̫̖̠̜̟͙̪̣̟̮̲̯̼̲̜̭̱̭̬̬̙͉̘̼͔̘͎̝̜̭̮̯̠̼̞͕͕͚̙̟̯̫̤̥͚͓̘̼͙̘͕͕̖̩̭̩̗̞͍̪̘͎̺̯̫̼͖̠̥̫̭͎̬͍̝̭̜̋̎͛̎̆̐̐͜ͅỢ̶̛̥͓̹͓̦̹͇̝̣̱̳̟̅̊̓̿̃̐͑̽͆̊̃̊̈́̇̈́͊̊̓̒̂̌̓̃̃͊̿͐͌̍̎̒̆́̒̎̋͂̄̾͘͘̚̚͠͝͝͠ͅͅ_ **

**_̴̧̛̛̥̬̦͙̺̙̲̠̫̤̬̬͖̞̫͓̩̖̞̪̼̪̼͍͎̫̥̬̟̙̹̱͖̱͎̳̌͛̇̊͌͑̓̊̈͆̇̓͛͗̎̉̓̑͌͋̀̏́͂̊͂̅͋̓͑̆̓̉̀̋̓̔̃̓̇̏̏́͗͐͐͊̑̓̔̓̊̎̓̿̎̌̆͗̈́̿̃̊̑̐̄̑̉͐̈́̌̃͊͂̓̾͂̃̀̈͋̍̕͘̕̕̕̚͝͠͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅF̴̨̨̡̧̡̢̢̢̡̛̛̛͎̳͍͍̩̳̩̭̠̜̩̮̙̜͈̜͉͍͚̳̘̖͇̫̞̹̝͎͕̲̙̦̳̰̱̬̟̻͈͚̩̙͓͚̝͕͇͕͙̠̤̯̤̥̝̫͔͇͚̬̼̩̮̭̝̱̮͉̪̙̙̝̻̥̞̰̣̭̞͍̋̍͆̒̎̿̇̍̎͒͋̎̏̈́̒̇͑̒͛̐͑͛̋̏͌̑͛̈́̍̋́̽̈́͊̾̓̃́̔͑͌͑̀͑͛̄̑̒̄̎̑̔̌͛̿̿̊̅͂̿̐̑̉͆̊̆̊̿͆̆̌̊̓́̆̍͑̔̎̏̀́͑̕̕͝͝͠͝͠R̷̨̢̧͎̠͓̗͇̫̤̜̝͉̬̺͗͌̊̈́̊̄̃̒̄̓̽̑͆̏̚͜͝͠ͅĮ̶̢̨̡̨̡̨̧̛̛̞̠̯̼̬̜̝͈̦̭̲͕͓̱̭̘͉͎̯̗̦̬̮̠͇͖͈̦̤̹͚̹̳̗͍̲̜̖̦̱̝̘͖̜̲͙̬͌͊͆̓̑̽͂̿̒̅̈́̉̍̂̾̄̏̎̓̽̽̍̀͛̀́͒̍̏̿̒̾̃͛̓̆̄͊̊͑̌̓̃̒̓͛̆̓͒̉̇̌̐͂̾̂̇͐̀̾͑͆̄̔̂̅̓̀̂̆͐̉̽͗͐̊̍͆̅̆̕͘͘͜͜͝͠͠͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅG̶̢̛͇̜͓̲̦̥͉̬̜͖̫̘̱̠̺̐̄̾͐͊̐͑͐͊̿͂͂̑̓͌͒̾̿̔͐̉͐̇̓͊̍̏̏̕̚̕̕͜͝͝͝E̵̢̧̢̧̧̧̨̛̝͚̩̩͎̤̘̺̦̖͔͙̣̤̩̗̝͔̣̜͇̩͙̤̝̤͇͇̜̝̰̻͚̺͎͍̭̠̞̔̅̃̒̀͊̍̃̓͒̽̇͋̍̆͗̽̋̓̉̒̾̔̈́͗͑̉̅̓̃̿̎̄̾̔̐̍̇̄͌̅̀̓̂͆̿̅̈͂̍̒́̉͊̕͘̚̚̚͘͘͜͝͝ͅͅƠ̸̧̧̡̧̧̡̢̢̧̡̨̲͇̙̠̘̗͚̝̱̞͇̮͇͓͕̭̟̼̲̫̪͓̠͖̜̗̰̥̼̭͚̭͔̦̪̤͕̘̼̜͇͔̟̟̪͚͔̭̹͉̬̪̻͓͙̪̣̟͔̤͖̰̘̓̌̎̌̃̐̑͂̈́͌̂̒̊̎̿̎͂̈́̾͐́̅̅͊̀̋̓̈́̃͛̊̎̑̇̈́̀͂̍̈́̔͜͜͠͝͝͝ͅͅ,̴̡̨̢̢̡̧̛̛̛̛̻͓̖̘̗͖̯̖̺̭͚̼͍̼̺̬̟͚͕̦͇̫̖̯̘͔̻̲̪͍̝͉̹̝̟̬̦̩̠̜̼̼̙͈̲̤̻̰͖͙̞͍̪̙͔̯̩̣̫̖̰͎̖̝͉͇̤̯̫̜̳̙̳̖̂̉̓̉̆̐̈̾͌̏̇̀͗͊͌̐̎͗̔̿̓̾̓̾̈́̆̀̔̉͒͋̾̐͐͌̉̑̽̇̉̊̊͛́͋̈́̽̋̓̈́̌̄̑͂̈́͛̈́̊̽̽̎̋̏̃͌̽̊͑̈́̈́̐̈́̅͛̎̏̌̊̈́́̃͆͊̕͘̚͜͜͜͝͠͝ͅͅ ̷̢̡̧̧̨̻̰̞̱͙̰͓̭̩̗̘͎̲̫̺̝̩̥̞̬͙̥͈̼̩̳̺̝̞̲̭̩̫̲͙̗̺͕̩̻̦͉̥̻̯̺̭͕͛̃͜Ç̶̡̨̢̢̛̛̛̹̻̩͓̯̗̙͈̭̱̳̳̥̮͙̟͉͎̰̫̟͕͂̏͌̆̅͛̒͆̑̌̾͗̅̉̽͋̓̓́̌͌̈́̄̀̈́̆͌̆̆̓́̾͊̑͒̌̓̾̽̈̿͛̐́͐͐͋̀͂̆͌͂̈́̾̄̐̈͑̕̕̕̕̚͜͝͠͠͠͝͠͝͝ͅƠ̵̧̨̧̢̡̢̡̧̢̨̢̛̛̞̖̘̝͖̱̯͕͍̲̺̪̭̻̳̳̦̳̹͚̮͉͚̟̹̮̰̰̬͎͚̞̤͍̰̲͚̮̬͎̜̥̪̞̪͈͖̩͚̹̖̻̩͖͖͍̞̩̩̭̞̳̭͎̰̥̱͖̙͙̤̝͊̈́́̽̊͊̈́͗̒̊͂́̂͗̏̂̊̎͋̂͑̋̃͛͆̾̿̆͌̊̂̄͗͑̄̿̈́̔̔̍̉͛̓͑̍͑͊̚̚͘̕͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝R̴̨̧̨̧̨̨̢̧̛͎̥̞̰̫͇̠̼͈̰̬̰̗͚̹͇͉̻̭̝̻̥̫̠͓̥̩͇͍̭̙̠͙̩̦̰̰̣͕͉͎̝͙͖̟̼͎̫̟͇̣͇͉̥͈̭̥̥̣̜̦̲̼̙̠͚̰̀̍̅͒̄̈́̇͐͒̂̓͊͌̋̑̏͊́͛̒̍̃̌̾̈́̔̅̈͑̏̍͊̓̐̇̌͗͑̒̎͐͆͐̔̆̈́̽̉́̉̃̽̿̊́̄̎͆͑̇̒̅͋́͊͋͋̓͌̏̉͒̈́̃̄̽͘̚̚̚̕̕͘͘̕͘͜͜͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͠ ̶̡̢̡̧̢̨̧̢̛̖͚̜̬̹̗̳̝̮͙̪̗͎̳̳͔̼̠̟͎̯͎̩̘̺͍̹͙͙̘̝̤͙̙̭̯̹͙̝̜̙͎̜̗̜͇̭̮̼͖̭̱̯̬̱͕̰͙̥̺̱͍̰̼̹͙̥̣̣̗̥̬̫̘̗̲̮̓͐̊̄͗̋̐̃̈̈́̄̀̎͛͊͐̍͒͋̽̎̍͌̄̌͑̉̈́̏̏̍̿́̊̉̀̀͒̍̈́̒̿̊̓̇̂̌̉̌̒̊̾̆͘͘̚͘͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͠͝F̶̨̧̨̨̢̛̛̛̛̛̘̜̤͉̯̝̫͔̯̝̜̻̦̦̱̪̞̜̹̺̥͎̹̙̟̠̲̱͈̙̘̞̯̤̰͎̮͖͈̳̪̪̦̍̔̿̓̆͋̔̇̃̃͌͂̇̿̐̉͗͆͛͑̿͂͊̒̋̽̽̄̊̈́̎͛͋̈́̾̄̓̽̄͛͛̔͛̊̉̊̓̑̑̋̽̉̉̈̇̌̿̋̓̏̈́̑̈́͗͒̿͒̉̔̀͌̓͆͐̏̚͘̕̕̚̚̚̕͜͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅĮ̴̨̧̢̡̧̡̨̧̧̢̨͚̮̬͉̝̼̯͉̦͚̤̻̼̪͇̭͔̫̼̺̼̺̪͈̻͚̣͚̬̠͇͎̥̼̤̫͈͍͙̼̳̱͉̩̣͈̮͉̩̙̘̺̙̥̩̞͈̱̳͇̭̱̘̫͎̬̲͓̖͍͈̣̗̠̪̤̭͔͚͓̗̞̤̯̠̬̣̯̹̻͋̅͂̆͜ͅT̷̮̜̻̙̠͕̬͈͕͛̄̇̅̆̽̿̏̓̈̄̔͊̓̑͋͆̃̈́̈̄̔̿͑͆̒̐̐͂̐͗̍̿̇̕͘̕̕̕͠͝͝͝͠͝ ̸̧̡̢̢̨̢͕̺̯̺̠̮̭̘̖̱̝͚̟̜̣͚̗̜̱̪̹͓̯̬̗̠͓̭̖̼̠̠̙͖̞̲͖͓̗̗̭̲͉̦͚̰̱̮̗̞͖̻̬̪̞͎̜͍̼͕̮̝̗̱̜̟͎̺̟̘̲̆̌͒͌̊͒̋̇͗͌͊̇̑̂͛̋̈́͊̂̀͊̇̌̏̈́̌͐̅͊̌̓̏͊́̾̋̒̇̒̑̂̆̏̿̈́̀̑͒̂̾̈́̇̍͗̉͗̐͘̕̚̕͜͝͠ͅP̶̧̧̡̡̢̢̢̭̹̰̳͚̩̺͖̘̙̥͚̪̝̦̝̞͉̫̱̱͙̟͓͈̳̮̖͍͕̞̯̰̱̥̹̮͎̟̻̙̠̬̞̮͖̺̞̘̟̲̱͉͉̠̤̳̲̬̙̜͔͉͔͙̝͔͎͉̗͕͎̪͕̣̲̞͉͇͎̙͈͔̪̙͕̹͈̄̉̍̃̽̐̀̆̾̌͗̀̔͑́̇͛̿̈̈́̎̎̐̈́̉̊̆̈̈́̋̌͐̌̇͆͂̂̊̆͗̚͘͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅË̶̢̨̨̢̧̨̢̨̨̡̨̢̡̢̛͖̟̖͇͍̦͕͚̮̫͔̻̳͚͍̩͔͚̠̦̗̪̥͙̼͇͔͎̖̣̜̭̰͇̼̞̫͖͖̭̦̥̙̪̙͔͕̳͖͙͔̺̩̞̟̱̥̦̝̦̯͎̭͎̱̘͚̱̟̘̞̥̣̗̭̭̤̦͈̰̻̤̞̦͙͚́̄̇̋̅̚͜͝ͅͅͅͅŢ̴̡̨̢̛̰̭̝̺̮̫̠̹̼̯̱̣̪̱̮͍̻̞̠̲̹͔̰̺̥̹̱̩̜̦͓̣͎̙̻͈̺̺̦͆̓͆̓̑̐̎̽́͆̔̅̓͐̂͆͛̓̆̎̎̒̄̔͛̇̽͒̋̇͗̚̚͜͜͝͝͝R̷̨̨̢̢̞͙̘̘̭̪̲̫̟̟͍̫̯̳̭̬̮͓͎̺̺̼̱̯̱̠̮͙̪͈̳̍̅̆͊́̇͆̑̈̒̾͆̆͂̽͆̎͒̊̀̈́͊͑̈͂̔̆̂͒̊̓͌̈̕̚͠A̸̢̨̡̡̢̨̛̩͉̖͔͉̭̭͍̮̻̹̹̞͍̣̻͈̗̭̦̗̤̟͔̻̬̫̫͓̱̤͕̳̘̬͎̥̣̙̫̹̠̱̮͇̯͕͈̲̖̰̽͗͗̅̿̀̅̅̅̋̓̔͗̾̕ͅͅ ̷̨̡̡̧̨̜͚̟͕͈̱̗̼̹̟̬͙͚̘̖͎̘̭̺̙̦̮͕̙̪͇̖̭̥̖̤̫̻̯̙̲̠̯̯̦̗̙̠̜̭̭̖̰̝͔̯̟̽͂̎͊̈́̄̾̊͑̈́̎̄͛͂͂̍͐̃͒̿̽̇̔͂͑̍͊͒͐̑̓̌͋̈́͗̐̓͗̃̈́̚͘͘͜͜͠͝͝͝_ **

**_̴̧̛͍̳̺̙̦͇̖͊̂̾̂̄̽̈̂̐̃̔̆̎̐̊̿̈́̈́͌͛́̒͊͐̊͗̐͐̐̅͗̑̒͑̂̇͗̏̈́̓̊̑̋̋͘̕͘̚̚̚͘̚͝͝͝V̴̨̨̧̢̡̡̖̲̱̟͔͖̤̥͇͈͈̲̲͎̜̙̗̠̲̰̬͉͗̓ͅͅI̶̧̧̢̢̭̟͉̳̯͓̝̜̜͓̦̼̥͎̲̱͎̙͈̰̖̱̺͙̝̟̳̯̹̮͔͈̭̣̭̠͍̬͓̓̎̀̈̊̂̍̊̒͂͗̄̓̚͜͜͜͜͠ͅͅŢ̷̨̨̡̛̥͇̤̰̫͚͍̪͎̘͈͍̗̟̫͚̥̳̯̙̯̦̺͈̦̝͚͕̘͎̹̹͎̯͖͈̻̯̞͈̠͎̱̳̫̯͚̎̌͊͊̍̅͛͑̏̈́͒̅̕͜ͅÃ̵̡̡̡̡̧̢̡̨̧̢̛̛̝̺̭̹͔̳̗͕̝̥̝̜̞̮͖̣̝͓͓̟͙͉̙̲͉̞̗̤̠̳̮͉̤̣͈̤͔͇̱̻̤͍͖̝͈̗͈̯͚̮͖̭͈̗̪̗̞̺̥͖̘̰̥͈̫͉̠̲̍̀̌̒̾̓̊̿̈́́̇͒̐͂̿͊̈́̉̈͊̈́̒͌̉͐̊͊͒͐͊̒̿͑͋̉̃̈̿̓̉̆̾̊̅̍̾̔̔̂̔̆̇̃͂̄̏͗̓̌̆̎̾̉̿̂͂͊̌̾̍̍̀͌͛̕͘̚͘͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠ͅͅͅ ̵̢̢̡̢̛̣͈̜͚̭̥͔̙͕̭̳̣̰̝̼̳̮̫̅̈̓̎̏̈́͌́̍̾̌̽͛̈́̀̊̏̾͆̾̏̔̈͂͒͌̾͛̋̿̅͐̐̀͑̅̐̐̿͂̾͌͐̿̾̓̓̍̈͛̽̉̀̉̾̅͌̓́̃͑̃̿̾͂̑̋̑͋̂̋͑̈́͌͌͗͘̕̚͘̚̕̕͜͝͠͠͝͝͝͝Ṁ̶̢̧̧̡̛̛̛̺͔̙̗̹̟̘̻̜̝͖͉̰̰͓͓̭͎̟͕̟̞̤̬̩̝͍̖͇͉̺̜̝͎͍̙̮̯̟̫̘͇͇͖̪̥̪̱̺̱͎̝̙̼̰͙̖̼̦͓̳̳̤̹̼͒̈́͂̈́͗̃̅̓͐̊͑̒̌̀̉̒̊̈́̇̍͗̔̑̐͑̈́̔͂̉̈̅̏̎̎͆̿̃̓̄̾̕̕͜͠͝͝Ę̷̧̢̮͓̯̺͚̜̖̬͉̝͙̥̠̲̖̝̯͚̼͇̲̩̙̥̓̒̈̒̈́͒̍͌́͗̿͌̆̑̇̐͆͆̍̽̂̒͘͜͝͠A̷̡̛̛͉̮̜͉̱͕̰̤͎̦͈̻͚͈̻̻͎͚̬̯̣̖͓̤̖̗͙͕̣̭̦̘̝̤̐͐̈́̊̀́͂̾̐̄͗͑̾͂̂̎̀̿̄̂͂͌̈́͂̎͑͊̈́̆̂̊̉́̄̃͛͑̏̓͌̓̓̓͐̊̏͗̆͘͘̕͜͜͠͝͝͝ ̵̧̢̨̢̢̡̡͓̻̹̘̪̲̺̙͙̣̼̲͇̫̞͇̤̫̭̱̘̭͇͉̱͔̼̪̥̼͕̣̱͖̤̥̺̮͈̖͚̰̹̱͖͕̬͙̙̗͍͉̝͓̜̣̮͉͉̳͈̱͕͈̤̗̞̝͙̪̜̻͉̮̟͕̻̂͆͌͋́̂̊͋̔̀̌́̆̇̈́̋̊̀̂̓͘͜͜͠͝͝F̷̧̨̧̛̗̞̤̯̝͓̥͍͍̫͓̼͍͉̳̫̩͖̼̟̝̹̤͙͖͉̱̦͇̹͚̻̮̯̙̩̹̼̹̱̯̥̜̙͇̙̝̺̺̃̽̒̈͂̓̐̔̌́̽̉̆̐͒͒̽̍͋̍̑̎̑̍͐̑̄̆̃͒̃̅̅̓̐̒̑̿̆͑̎͒͌̓͋̆̏͗̎͑̀̉̕̚͜͜͝R̶̨̡̛̛̛̛̜̙̱̹̭̯̖̥̪͙͚̮̟̯̰̤͎̝̪̥̘̫͖̬̤͓͖̩̤̼͙̮̪̳͉̜̰̬̼̔͑͌͒̈́̽̉̽̽̓̃̆̈́͊̎͌͒͐̈́̌̀͗̅̆̅̇̐̽̓̌̈́̽̕̕͠ͅĄ̶̢̧̡̨̡̧̧̡̧̡̨̡̨̛̩̫̱̙͕͔̩̝͉̗̹̜̥̼̮̠̦͈̗̙̰̹̻͔̝̭̟͍͖̞̗̳̖͕̲̬̤̜͚̪̞͙̗̺̙͕̭̭̲̥̬̟̗̜̞̝̣̻͚̯̥̳̺̠̻̥̪̱̩͈̹͍͈̗̬̱͉̣̬̞̖̭̭̪̳̇̅̄͌̑̅́̾̀̍̆̋̓͂͂͆̽̅͑͂̎̒̆̃̉̓͌͗̉̅͑̓͋̄͌̆̈̀͊̈͗̚͘͜͜͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅC̸̡̡̧̡̢̡̧̧̧̨̧̢̛̛̛̛̝̣̜͚̖͍͎̟̮̰͇͚̝̣̥̼̖̣̻͓͎̫̬̝͕̞̭̼͈̻͇̜͈̱̼̰͈͙̤̖͚͎͔͉͚͇̠͔̖̲̮̘͎̬̤̥͍̗̙͈̹̩͈̗͙̱̹͔͙͇͓̙̣̤͈̖̣̣̱̮̞̥͉͕̍̎͐́̓̎̈́͐̾̃̈́̑̆̓̈͌̊̉̐̽̄̐̔͆̎̽̐͆̈́̓̐̓̈́́͗͛͛͆̾̔͛͑̊̈́̐͑̊͋̏͆͆̓̈́̑͆̃̈͆̿̈́̃̿̂̍̓̀͋̑̔́̑̓̌͘̕̚͘̕̕̚͜͠͠͠ͅŢ̷̧̨̧̛͉̩̪͎̯̗͕̞̩̟͖͇̭͍̘̣͔͈̣̝̱͖̞͔̗̼͖͓̺̥̻̤͙̙̠͙͓̤͋̿̆͆̓̃̈̾͐̾̒́͗̾̑̊̅͋͒͆̈́́̈̿͐̎̍̈̇̆̂͑̐͆̄̈͊̋͆͋̈́͋̓̏̊͑̐̓̂͑͒̌͋͒̈̏͆̂̿̈́̈́̐̔̇̾̆͂͑̆̉͑̂͘̕̚̚̕̚̕̕͘̕͝͝͠͝͝͠ͅͅẢ̵̧̢̨̩͙̗̱̱͈̟͍̲͔̗͔̫̰̰͖͔͔̥̜̩̱̪̩̻͍̪͈̗̞̪̞͎͎̻͉͍̳͎̖͇̟̘͓̤͈͓̥̼̺̹͈̻̘̙̠͎̦̩̈̔̌̓̒̏͐̊̑̒̀̓̀̃͒̽͂̓̇̿͊̽̾̓̀̏̑͂͒͒̈̇͂̓̏̾̌͒̎̒̎̂̌͗̏̃̆͆̑͘̚͘͜͝͝ͅ ̴̢̢̧̡̢̨̢̢̡̢̡̢̘̪͔̥̳̞͎̹͙̣̠̗̗̜̤̭͇̯͎̯̮̭̜̟̞̼͍̹̺̖̲̹̮͔͇̖͚̪̼̯̗̬͔̗̻̫̺̳̦̬̝͎͙̱̥͈̯̲̠̘͕͖̻͎̠̭͍̬̰̌͊͂͒̔̾͐͋̈́̽́̌̓̈̋̂͒̋͋̈́̎͒͑͑͒̿́̄̂̐̆͂̄̆̆͒̏̿̈̈̀̌̏̎͛̓̂̾̌́̾́̈́̐̆̾̈̋̇͗̋̍̊́̓̿̅͂̃̿̊͂͂̈́͌͛̏̑͋̒͆̓̚͘̕̚͘͘̕͘͘͘͘͜͠͝͝͠͠͠͠ͅͅͅÈ̷̢̨̨̢̛͈̳̭̮̘̮̻̯̣̯͙̞̙̲͈̻̟͇̣͙͎͚̥̪̥̟͍̲̝̦̙̰̖͔͍͕͎͈͙̟̠͙͚͔̝̦͎͚̩͔̲̯̼̩͈̮̂̏͒̊̊́̌͒́͒͊̀͆̐̓̀̈́̐̌̈́͐̒̄̋͂͆̏̄͐͛͆̈́̒͋͗̈́̈́̑̈́̄͐͌̊͑́͛̈̋̇̐͑̄̿̓̾͂̑͋̾͊̑̑͗͆̀̊̈́͘̚̕̚̕̕͝͠͝ͅS̸̨̢̢̛̛͔̭̖͎̖͍͔͇̪̝͓͎̦̠̳͚̜̭̫̹̫̞̳̪̼̫̻̳̦̣̊̈͊̎̓̃́̓͂̋͒̅͋́͒̇́͋̅̎̓͂̋̈́́̽͐̒̍̓͗̉͛̔̈͛͛̂̃̓͌͑̉̍̏͐̇͗̓̓̍̆̈́̏̒̓̉̎̓͆̅̾͒̐̒́̈́̚̕͘̕̚͝͝͠͝͝T̶̡̢̛̛̛̛̹̻̹͚̙̰̠̜͍͈̻̭͚̺̼̼̳͔̳̼̝͖̲̼̺̘͉͖̞͍̝̼̬͙̲̦͉̟͉̭̩͇͓̖̻͚̭̘͇̼̪̂͂͐̎̓͌͂̓̂̈̽̿̽͐͒̈̅̈́̾̏̈́̈͋̏̈́̋̌̆̿̉̌̌͑̔̈̉̀̀̐͋͋̽̌̈́͋̎̅̾̑́̍͑̄̊̈̿́̔̽̂̇̽͑̈̊̈́̒̀̉̆̈̆͘̕̚͘͘͘͠͠͝͠ͅͅ ̸̧̨̡̢̨̨̢͚̳̤̻̠̞͍͚͉͚͓̯̰͍̯̣̞̠̙̠̘̘̤̬̙̤͈̳͓̰̫̭̘̬̰͚͎̪͕̲̘̰̩͓̬̘̦͎̫̘̲͚̱̻̘͕͖̤͔̤̩̤̜̪̠͉͙̻̼͎̈́̉̉͛͆́̂͐̏͗̐̃̈́̒͒̆̾̋̍̕̚͜͠͝͠ͅͅͅ_ **

**_̶̡̨̧̡̢̨̡̡̖̼̦͇͔͍̲̮̱̰̞̝̝̠͕̜͎̝͉̼͕̹͇̯̰̦͇̯̜͍͕̞̖̪͇̹͈͎̫͈̺̩̭̤̣̩̩̫͙̠̣͕͈̦̩̦͓̳̤̤͈̲͕̯̬̪̭̥̖͙̼̠͉̣̲̌̈́͌̽̀̆͑̾̿̉̾̈́̇̅͆̐́̓̊̄̅͊̏̆̈́̈́̌͋͊̓̋͛͗̋͆̈́͊̈́̈̄̂̔̾̑̍͛̂̑͒̈̿͑͑͂͗̾̌̋͆̌͐̔͌̑̃͊͛̇̒̋̒̒̄̅͘͘̚͘̚̕̕̕͜͜͝͝͝͝Ę̸̛̛͔̭͕̹̣͓̺̲̳̣̙̟̺͍̹̟̟̣̳̝͕͚̻͉̟̤͓̗̮͔̫̦̥̤͈͕͓̯͖̎͐͌͛̽̊̀̓͗͋͌͊̈̏̇̓̍͐͋́̐͛̈́̈́͋͊̔͛͌͐̃̄̈́͐͂̄͋͌̋̃͆̃̇̿̽̑̌͑̊̾̇̔̏̏̑̂̆͊͂̍͌͆̇̔̓̎̔͂͛̄̎̉͋̅̒̕̚͜͜͝͠͝͠ͅͅͅͅŢ̴̧̡̛͔̼̭̱̫̙̙̳̗̥̰͉̹̯̱̠̣̝͙̥͎̳̘̩̤̯̹̘̖̝̩͎̞͚̇̏͂͆̈́̊̃̉̔͂͑͗̃̔̊͆͂̊͆̂̆̊̽̎̀̿̐̓̉͛̃̐̒̋̂̇̅͋͌̒̅͊̂̂̒̇̈́͗͐̋̓͑̌̈̓̃̽͌͘̕͘͜͝͝͠͝͝͠ ̸̨̨̧̨̛̛̛̟͈͉̙͇̖̥̖̹̣̜͇͖̪̗̲̜͕̟͎̙̜͈̗̝̩̾̓̔̉͊͂͋̔̉̀̏͑͆̿̌̄͛̓̀̆͗̐̿̈́͛͒̆͊̉̋̈́̏̑̒̏̏̈́̀͋̋̀̾̈́͋̒̐̾̆̉̕͘͜͝͠͝͝͝ͅD̵̨̡̧̨̮̟̱̮̗͉͖͍͕͇͕̖̙̪͉̼̭͕͍̙̩̬̲͚̤̯̺͕͓̟̜͎̱̪̟̻͓̗̞̬̙͈͇̜̠̦͍̭̳̫̬̦̞̳̹͖͉̦̹̬̭̣̺͓̟̻̺̤͇̻̃̌͒̌͑̓̋̊̉͋̈̏͑͊̿̿͋̿̒̓̌̂͐̾͊́̓̏̑͋̆͆̋͂̈͛̃̈́͊̒̅͛̊̏̂̽̍́̾͑̀̒̈́̅̆̈́̀̈́̎̀̾͘̕͘͘͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͠ͅẺ̸̡̨̧̡̛̛͙͚̙̩͎͉̺̰̜͓̲̹̲̭͎̪̙͓͈̘̫̙͚͎͈̰̥̼̝̠̳͉̞̝̦̰̤̠̖̐͑̈́̂̄̌͜͜ͅM̷̡̡̢̡̨̢̡̢̛̛̪̺͇͙͙͓̞͉̬̠͚̭͖͔͎̠͇̝̖̫̟̝̯̣̮͔̞̱͗͂̉̓̄͐͒̌̂̂̑̈́̓̏̃̓̄̂̿̓͛̆͌̏̿͑͒͛̋̈́͛̄̑̓̋͂͌͜͜͝͠͠͝͠͠Ỉ̶̛̛̗̝͎̟͇̩̎͌̆͛̍̓̽͂̋̐̓̉͆̌̃̋̅̽̾̈́̆̈̃̒̈́̈́̚͝͝͝Ş̷̡̢̧͔̝̯̹̼͙̯̞̼͔̖͎̣͈͔͙̹̬̮͖͕͚̜̙̺̞͙͖̩͕̘͍̼͎̲̦̯̹̻̹̻͎͕̥͉̺̣͙̱͕̥͙͚̻̲̻͈̲̦̺͓̫̯̰̙͍̲̬͙͎̰͕̽̓͜͜͠ͅŜ̵̬̣͙͓̻̤͕̻͓̱̫͎̰̮̮͕̱̱̤͍̗̱̰̭͙̽̐̐̓̏̌͝Ą̸̢̢̡̨̖̳̼̦̼̜̲̺̘̩̦̭̳̞͎̤̬̗̱̜̖̰̰̗͖̩̗̪̦͓̥̖͉̞͔̗̱̹̙͈͈̥̮̜̩̮͈̞̮̫̩̲̩̖̈́́͋̒̾͊̈̋͋̇̅̆̍̓͆͗̂̇̓̽̋̚̕͘͘̕̚͜͠͝͝ͅ ̶͇͈̫̮̹̖̭̺̼̭͕̥͎̲̥̰͈̯̟̗̦̹͚̙̱̤̟̭͈͈̘̦͍̲̭̫͚̗̘̩̗̥͎̘̱̳̗̙̪͖̭̫̼̗͓̿͗͐̓̋̐̓̈̉̿͒̌̈́̊̎̎̆̅̃̈́̎̃͆̂̊̋͊̌̂̔͑̕̕̚͘͘͜͜͜͠_ **

**_̵̢̢̢̨̧̡̡̡̟̮̹̫̖͔̲͍͔̬̬͕̝͇͍̮͉̞̟͕͖̞̞̞̟͚̲͇̠͈̺̙̣̻̞͙̰͖̝̼͇̮̼̦͈̯̫̦̟̲̞̼̮̩͉͍̫͍͖̻̞͎̹̠͕̗̗̙̠̻̯̝͍̥͓̝̭̞̩̙͈͉̍͜ͅE̴̢̨̨̡̨̧̢̡̢̨̛͍̟̞̘̣͕̝͎̭̲͇̞͇̝̟̭̱͙̣̮̠̖͙͎̝̪̞̺̝͚̘͍̱̮̝͔̭͚̞̻̦͎̻̠̯̻̲͓̗̥͖̤̞̘̥̩̣͉͍̹̹̜͚͓̼̥̩̠̪̪͓̥̭͋͑̑͛̈͆͛͌̇͋̃̃̒̽̈́̋͑̐͐̈̏͒̀͆͆͐̋̌̉̓̉̈́͒́̃̋̎̐̏̔̽͌̓͆͘͘͜͜͜͜͜͠ͅͅT̴̡̨̡̧̡̨̧̧̢̛̛͈̙̗̺̲̜̹͇͕̳̣̮̘͈̟̫̬̞͉̙̜̪̰̠͎̟͔͓̳̜̥͉͈̼̯̱̳͙̻͙͈̮̯̘̠͇̳̮̞͉̹̳̲̦̬̓͌̊̆͌̆͌̇̓̾̐̂̉̏̄͐͋̒̽̽̽́̅͂͒͂̉̀̆͌͂̈̌̎̈́̾̈̈̓̄͊̂̾̏̈́͛́̎̉̃̊̊̿̅̈́̄̋͊̎̋̀̚͘͘̕͜͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅ ̸̧̨̧̛̛̥̗͕̤͔̣̱̖̹̱̰̲̳͚͓̖͉͔̜̺̠̫̻̭͕̫̖͍͈̜̥̹͔̥̝̫͓̫̱̞̭̙͈͙̦͍͎͕͚̗̹̳̪͉͕̪̮̲̪͇̠͙̗̳̻̱̥͈̆͒̋͐̾͒̓̒̂̄͌͊̊̔̄̏͊̌̑̅̏͋̃͑̇̆̑̈̃̌͑̐̂͑̐̿͗̅̽̏͊͐̃͂̑̀̍̐̋́͋̑̽̀͒̿̂̍̐̔͐̂͑̄͋̎̈́́̇̈̆̄͋̇̎̿̚̕̕͘̕̚̕̕͜͠͝ͅP̷̧̢̡̨̡̨̢̨̡̢̧̛̳͔͎̘͔̳̱̘̩͖̬̭͕͇̬̤̟̱̣̩̠͙͈̠͙͔͍̝̮͙̳̦̤̘͓̭͍̱͉͔̤̘͔͎͈͎͓̥̙͈̙͚͎̠̙̱̜̞͇̬͖͔̩̝͇͙͚̣̥͎̱͉̩̩͕̝̞͎̬̘̤̰̙͙̣͔̙̳͎̂̔̈͜͜Ȩ̶̧͉͕̲̭̯͎̠̠͎̪̦͕̗̩̦̱͙̦͍͔̬͍͈̝̫̖̠̯͉̜͓̬̱̲͎̣̠̻̥̻̎̉̇̿̋̎͂͒̋͌͐̽͐̿̃̒̉̾̉͌̉͘͜͝͝͝Ř̷̨̡̨̧̧̨͚͉̼̠̝̻̜͔̼̞̺͈̯̗̩͈̣̹̲̻͉̯̘͙̮̬̣̗̺̹̯̟͍̮̱͚̤̩̮̣̩͈̑̋̄͑́̀͒͐̆͌͐̋͗̋͗̌͒́͌̍̒͒͂̕͘͜͜͝͝͠͝ͅĎ̸̨̡̢̢̧̧̨̨̡̡̨̛̛̛̛̯̞̜͎̘̣̺̲̥̲̦͔̙͖̦̣̰̟͈̥̫͍̦̘͎̻̘̱̫̠̠͎͉̦̖̫̬͚͇̹͙̲̹̼̳̣̮̘̹̝͕̺͈̼̞̭͎̭̗͎̝̭̹̣͕͇̙̩̣̣̩̺͔̩͔̗̯̦͔̤̑̆̑̃̈́̌͗̇́̄̂͌̆̿̉̍̽́̔͋̆̃̇͌̔̍͒͗̿̎͊͑̀̈́̔̉́̾̏͆̈̏̔̅͑̄̈͊̂͌̈́̏͋̏̀̎̈́̂̔̎͂̆̄̚̕͘̚̚͜͜͜͝͝͝͠ͅͅĮ̸̡̢̡̧̤̭̞̘̙͈͖̝̮̟͕̙͓̤̼͈̳͙͓͍̗̣͎̘̦̱̟̬̻͖̠̲̲̹̞͙̖̭̦̱̥̿͂͒̈́̆̑͛̇̍̃̽̈́̈̽̀͘̕͜ͅͅT̷̡̡̛̛̛͓̞̜̙͙͕͓͎̬͔̜̤̠͖͇̙̰̲̞̘̪̩̬̠̦͕̗̬̩̮̬̺͎̮̭̱̠͉̜͇̼͚̤̥̠͎͎̻̱̥͔̤̫̯̦̺̥͖͙͈̖̦̭̺̘͖̺̼̳̲̬̼̗̳͖͑̃͛̈́̑̓͐̃͑̅̋̎̅͛̉͗̇̅̊̉̂͑̓̔̂͌̿̒̔͐̀̋͗̓̈́͛́͒͌͋͒̔͑͗̿̃͆̆̈́̎͒͗̓̔͊͗̂̇̿̑̑̾͆̊̇̄̊̿̅̇̕̚͘͘͘͘̕͜͝͝͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅA̶̛̛̹̦͍̹͎̘̝̳̤̠͈̬͇͓̙͔͎͔̬̭͙̻̣͕̖̗̲͍̤͓͓̜̤̦̻̠͚̖͇͙̪̠͇̠̯̤̪̱͖͂̋̉̇̆̍̆̓͋̓̍̎̂͗͐̓͂͒͒̋̄͑̀̒͑̽̂̊̾͊͆̕̚̚͜͜͝͠!̷̛̛̥̭̃̏̍̌̓̏̐̔͗͋̓̒́͒̏̇̎̈́͐͂͌̓͒̄͒̃̆̽̍̐̀̾̽̄͊͒͑̒́͑̉̔͒͋̎̊͋̽̓͌͊̋̈́̚̚̚̚͝͠”_ **

_̸̨̡̧̢̡̡̨̤͈͉̖̗̟̘͈͔͓̘͔̹̬̟̙̹̺̖͈͔̟̼̝̥̗̲͖̜̝̩̖̙̬͈̠͚̙̞̹̦͔̗̜͓̣̼̗̭͍͔̜̯̪͔͚͙͔̖̲͊͆̅̾́͜͜͜_

Maxwell’s incantations don’t even sound like words anymore. They’re too thick with Fuel. Fuel and blood, which drop from his mouth in disgusting clots and splatter into the dirt. But his lips never stop moving.

Wendy is screaming at him, though she still clings tightly to Wilson’s arm. She looks frantically between her uncle and the scientist, completely distraught. And then she catches sight of Abigail’s Flower, bathed in its usual white light and floating above the ground, level with the hem of her skirt.

She had given it to Maxwell to inspect once. Before either of them knew. Before Wilson had confirmed her suspicions, as well as Maxwell’s.

_Hm? What a familiar presence._

_I can sense strong magic within it._

_This enchantment is not of my doing._

**_This enchantment is not of my doing._ **

****

She scoops up the Flower and looks at Wilson.

_It’s not enough! Maxwell, your magic isn’t strong enough for this!_

_Apple didn’t fall far from the tree, eh?_

_Rotted on the branch. And I mean that with all the love in my heart, Wendy._

Time to find out whether magic ability ran in the Carter bloodline.

She stands in front of Wilson, holding his face in her hands, and times her words with Maxwell’s.

_“Fugio sine fine / Daemon est, parce mihi / Furiosus occulos timeo / Frigeo, cor fit petra / Vita mea fracta est / Et demissa / Et perdita.”_

Her voice rings out so clearly in the din, cutting through the cacophony like a sacrificial blade infused with the blue glow and mystical energy of the full moon. The notes of an enchanted silver flute, as haunting as it is beautiful. They somehow mesh perfectly with the discordant warped reed organ with smashed pipes and broken glass that is Maxwell’s chanting, a chilling supernatural duet between two souls consumed by grief and loss.

And that’s when Wilson throws his head back and starts _screaming._

Screaming like a man being burned alive. Screaming until his vocal chords snap under the strain and his squamous epithelium and lamina propria and muscularis mucosae separate from his esophagus. Screaming and choking and tearing at his throat like he’s being garroted with piano wire. The sound is somewhere between the shrill whistling of steam escaping the shell of a boiling lobster, and a molten Harmon trumpet under a hydraulic press. It makes the remaining conscious Survivors' skins feel like it will crawl right off their bodies.

But Wendy doesn’t stop, and neither does Maxwell.

And the last of the Shadows purge themselves from the scientist.

“Wilson! WILSON!”

Wilson looks around, confused. “Uh. . .” Stars, his throat was _on fire._ “It’s kinda dark and foggy, I can’t really see. . .is that you, Wendy?”

“. . .wait, you can actually hear me?”

“Yes, of course I can hear you. But you sound kinda. . .different? I don’t know, maybe I'm imagining things.”

“That’s probably why you’re so good with languages. You have a sensitive ear. Wendy does, too.”

“. . .wait, I'm confused. Aren’t you. . .wait. . .no, it can’t be. That’s not possible.”

“Come on, science man, aren’t you the one always saying ‘nothing is impossible?’”

He chuckles nervously, running a hand through his hair. “That’s usually followed up with ‘just highly improbable,’ but, yeah, guilty as charged.

Come on out. . .Abigail.”

A glowing little girl pops out of the fog inches from his face and grins, hair wild and eyes closed and button nose all scrunched up and the cutest little gap between her central incisors. “Boo! Heehee.”

Wilson laughs lightly. “Nice to finally meet my not-so-secret admirer in the, uh. . .not-flesh. Meet properly, I mean. Since I can hear you.

. . .why can I hear you?”

She purses her lips and shrugs. “I dunno, probably because you’re a couple of finger sandwiches short of a tea party right now?”

“Huh.” He smooths back his hair. “I always liked the little cucumber ones. We should have a tea party sometime. That might be fun.”

“Ha! You’re so weird.” She kisses his nose. “Mwah.”

Wilson blushes, rubbing his nose. “Gah, still cold! And. . .where is everybody?” He looks around, but sees nothing but dense, dark forest shrouded in eerily luminous mist.

“Not sure, but they're around. I can still sense ‘em. You’re not dead, by the way, before you ask. I think we're just. . .between dimensions, or something. They can probably still see us, but can’t hear what we're saying. I've been dead a pretty long time, but I _still_ don’t understand how this stuff works.”

Wilson sinks.

“Oh no! Don’t look so sad! It makes your hair all droopy!” She tries to style it back. “Hey, did you know your hair kinda _sproings_ back into shape when you mess with it? I wanna hear the scientific explanation for _that._ ”

“I think the ‘scientific explanation' for that is just ‘thick hair with a lot of volume.’ But. . .”

“But what?”

Wilson frowns at the ground, arms folded. “You've probably been dead longer than you've been alive, if I did the math correctly. It just. . .It’s not fair, you know? You’re just a kiddo. You, Wendy, Webber. . .none of you should be here.” He rubs the right side of his forehead, where he can feel the beginnings of a tension headache. “Me getting trapped here was my own fault. But you three don’t deserve this. This is Hell for Stupid Adults Who Make Bad Life Choices only.” He scoffs, a short, bitter bark of mirthless laughter. “Story of my life, though, isn’t it? And I _still_ had the unmitigated _gall_ to throw a temper tantrum about getting stuck here and dying like a billion times all because I couldn’t handle the prospect of not being able to kiss a BIG STUPID MAGICIAN on his BIG STUPID LIPS on his BIG STUPID FACE FOR THE REST OF FOREVER!”

Abigail simply floats in the air next to him, head cocked to one side. “. . .You good there, buddy?”

“. . .Yes. I think I got that all out of my system. Okay, hissyfit about having a slightly different hissyfit over.”

He sits down in the grass, wrapping his arms around his knees, and Abigail lights down next to him. “. . .but at least I can still _be_ with that person. I. . .I'm sorry, Abigail.”

“Why are you sorry? Like you said, you’re kinda old for me. And I'm, like, ten-ish? And you’re also dating my uncle, so that’s kinda weird.”

Wilson gives her a small smile. “Weird because we're men, or weird because he’s your uncle?”

“Weird because he’s my uncle and also a huge weirdo.”

“Heh. Fair enough.”

“. . .does it bother you? Liking other guys?”

“Bother me? Not exactly. That kinda thing happens in the Animal Kingdom all the time.

. . .this is usually where I'd go on a big scientific tangent and outline instances of same-sex mating practices by species, but it’s kinda long and boring and I'm not sure how comfortable I am telling you about the birds and the bees, so to speak.”

“Or the peacock and the popinjay?”

He laughs. “Or the peacock and the popinjay.”

“. . .what IS a popinjay, anyway? Some sorta bird, right?”

“It’s a parrot. There’s a reason they were called that, but I'm too tired to remember.”

“Heehee. It suits you, though.” Abigail plays with his hair. “You even have the crest thing.”

“You’re thinking of a cockatoo. Both are pretty obnoxious, though.”

“. . .So if it doesn’t really bother you, then what’s the problem?”

Wilson hugs his knees closer, resting his cheek on them and closing his eyes. “I'm worried about what everyone else thinks.”

“Why?”

“Because I never really _could_ stop worrying about what other people thought. It’s much easier when it’s strangers, but when it’s people you actually like. . .”

“Nobody seems really bothered by that, though. Everybody seems to get a kick out of it, actually. But if anybody actually _is_ kinda weirded out by it, it's not because ‘ew, boys kissing,’ but ‘ew, gross, it’s Maxwell and he's a weird old guy that kills people.’”

“A very good point. Probably the third time I've heard something to that effect today. . .”

“Does he taste gross? Like cigars?”

Wilson snorts, raising an eyebrow at the spectral schoolgirl beside him. “Would I keep kissing him if he tasted gross?”

“You might.”

“. . .no, he does not taste gross. At least _I_ don’t think so.”

The two sit quietly for a while in comfortable silence. There’s a cool presence against his shoulder as Abigail leans against him, and he doesn’t dissuade her.

“Wendy was right about you, you know. You’re a really nice guy.”

“Heh. I don’t feel like it some days, but thank you.”

“. . .I never really had a crush on a boy before.”

“Well, I mean. . .you’re pretty young. Girls your age should be, uh. . .should be doing whatever girls your age do, I guess? Playing, harassing your sister, getting in trouble, eating too much candy, stuff like that.

. . .little girls _do_ do those things, right?”

“I did when I was alive.”

“Well, there you go.

. . .but why me, though?”

“Why Uncle Max?”

“. . .Touché.”

Wilson ponders over this for a while.

“. . .he’s not a totally bad guy, your uncle. He's a jerk, but. . .I dunno. It’s hard to explain.”

“You hated him too hard. You hated him _so_ hard it doubled-back around into love.”

He snorts. “Stranger things have happened, I'm sure. Although, on the subject of love and not being a totally bad guy. . .” He reaches into his innermost waistcoat pocket. “I have something to show you.”

“Oh?” She presses closer. “Is that a photograph?”

“It is. Take a look.”

Abigail squints, then her eyes widen. “Wait, is that. . .is that Father and Uncle Max?”

“Yes. And you two.”

“. . .where did you find this?”

“Maxwell had it buried with all his stuff. I-I'll give it back to him! I just. . .I wanted to make a frame for it. So he can keep it on his desk and look at it everyday.

I really, honestly think. . .trapping you and Wendy here was an accident. I think if he realized who you both were, he never would have done it.”

“You really think so?”

“I do.”

Abigail is quiet for a moment. “Are you gonna show Wendy, too?”

“Yes, of course.” He considers. “Actually, how about the three of us make a picture frame together?”

Abigail beams. “You mean it?”

“Absolutely! He'll love it even more if he knows it’s from you two.” He puts the photograph back in his pocket for safekeeping.

“Will you write ‘World's Okay-est Uncle' on it for me?”

“I would be delighted.”

She hugs him. “Thanks, Wilson. You’re the best.”

Wilson smiles and pats her head.

“. . .hey, Abigail?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you. . .miss not being able to grow up?”

“That’s a weird question.”

“I've been told I'm a pretty weird guy.”

Abigail moves to wrap her arms around his neck from behind in much the same way Willow does, and she rests her chin on the top of his head. “I never really thought about it. I guess I kinda assumed I'd get married or whatever, or live with Wendy somewhere. Mother said Father was so happy when Uncle Max came to live in California.”

“I'm surprised you don’t call him Uncle Will.”

“He's been Maxwell to me for so long, it feels kinda strange to call him anything else. Plus I don’t think he likes being called William anymore.”

“True.”

“. . .hey, Wilson?”

“Mm?”

“Can I. . .hold your hand?”

Wilson laughs. “You've been hanging all over me this whole time, and _now_ you want to ask?”

Abigail whips back in front of him, hands on her hips, cheeks puffed out in a scowl. “Don’t be mean. I just. . .I never got to hold a boy's hand before.”

Wilson stands, shaking his head. Then he extends his hand to her.

When she accepts it, he gently closes his calloused, chemical-burnt fingers around her little glowing hand and gives it a squeeze. And he smiles.

“Because you talked to me like I was there.”

Wilson looks confused. “What?”

“Why I liked you. You treated me like a person, instead of a ghost. Even though you don’t like ghosts, you still talked to me. The first thing you ever said to me was that my ‘bow' was cute.”

“Yeah, I didn’t realize it was a flower at first. I don’t know where my brain was that day, sorry.” He looks back down at their joined hands. “I. . .know what it’s like to feel forgotten and ignored, I guess. I know how hard it can be. How much it can hurt.” But he shakes his head and gives her a playful grin, hoping to lighten the mood. “But I'll go crazy more often so we can talk without having to go through Wendy, how about that? I'll even take you on a date. It's the gentlemanly thing to do for the lady who fancies him so much.”

Abigail’s laugh is just as sweet as her sister’s. “You’re so weird.”

“I get that a lot. Shall we go back, my dear Abigail? However we're supposed to do that?”

“Abby.”

“Hm?”

“Call me Abby. ‘Abigail' always makes me feel like I'm in trouble.”

“Abby it is, then. Heh, Abby and Wendy. I like that, it’s cute.”

“Hey, can I ask for one more thing?”

“Of course.”

“Can I, uh. . .” She looks away, and he swears he can see her cheeks darken. “. . .can I have a kiss?”

Wilson brushes back her hair and bends slightly to plant a tender kiss to her forehead. Abigail splits into another impish, gap-toothed grin.

“Heehee. I got a kiss from a boy. Wendy’s gonna be jealous.”

“Yes, please give Uncle Max another reason to kill me, I'm sure that’ll go splendidly.”

“Psshhaw, he wouldn’t kill his boyfriend.”

“Again, you know this is _Maxwell_ we're talking about, right? Partner status does not exempt one from being killed to death, I'm pretty sure. Because he was ready to murder me eight ways to Sunday when Warly found out we kissed each other.”

“Oh, right.” Abigail holds her chin as she thinks. “There was also that creepy Deerclops flirting thing you were doing that day, too.”

“I respect a man who can appreciate a fine set of organs and assorted viscera. Even if they’re mine. _Especially_ if they’re mine. Means he’s got good taste.”

Abigail shakes her head, but she remains amused. “You two really _are_ perfect for each other, I swear.”

“That did not sound like a compliment but I'll take it as one anyway.” He grins. “Come on, everybody’s probably waiting, and Uncle Max isn’t getting any less grumpy.”

The two share one last silly grin before walking hand-in-hand into the fog.

“Wilson! WILSON!”

He's brought back to reality with a hard slap across the face.

“Ow!. . .W-Willow. . .?”

“Oh, thank God.” She pulls him into a tight hug. “You were spaced out for a while and nobody could snap you out of it. You just sat on the ground and mumbled to Abigail the whole time.”

“Abby? She’s still here?”

“She never left, dummy! She’s been beside you the whole time.”

He blinks through the semi-dark and looks over. Sure enough, there she is, and she does a little ghostly spin in place.

“Oh. Hey, Abby. Long time, no see.”

“. . .Why are you calling her ‘Abby' all of the sudden?”

“Because that’s her name. _Obviously._ Right, Abby?”

Abigail does another little spin.

“See? There you have it.” He turns back to the others and—

“. . .Oh my word. . .what _happened_ here!?”

Woodie has reverted to his human form and is collapsed in a heap next to Wolfgang. Warly, Wickerbottom, Wes, and Wigfrid are all stained with blood and Fuel and panting with exhaustion. The ground around them is pockmarked with charred, smoldering depressions. The surrounding trees, the ones that are still standing or aren’t Charcoal, have turned to stone.

“ _You_ happened. Or all the Shadows that were inside of you.”

“All of the—how many!?”

“Like, a lot? Like seriously, there were _a lot._ ”

“. . .Really.” He seems to be considering this as he inspects the damage. “. . .Huh.”

. . . ** _A̶̢̨̧̡̡̡̛̫̺̪̞̙̘̳̰͍̼̯̺̪͔̘̱̯̯͈̜̮̝̺͎̩̻̪͓̩͎̜̻̣͇̝͙͔̟̱͈̲̝̟̰̗̫͎̪̙̺̲̭̥͚̭̻̝̭͚̟͉̤̱̖͍̤͚͖̖͚̼̜̥̠̻͙̠̒̋͗͌͌̊̇̏̌̂̌̏̒͗͛̑͒̆̏͋̐̑̔̿̍̔͛͑̄̾͋̌̄̐͘̚̚̕͜͝Â̶̢̧̧̨̨̨̨̛̻̹̣̣̦̦͉̬̳̟̭̦̖̺̭͔͖͙͚̗̠̹̮͉͎̹͚̤͕̼͙͍͕̜̯̱͓̫̈́̅̈́̊̈́͑̿̂͌̾̑̄͊̇̓̉͑̌̋͌̿̒̾͑̊̆̕͘͠͠͠͠͠͝͝͝A̷̧̧̢̧̧̡̛̛̭̮̫̞̱͎̰̤̯̤̗̤̝̬̼̱͓̳̟̦̯̥̹̫̫͙̻̟͇̹̫͎͇̳͎̠̗̫͇̙͓̥̠̯͓͍̥̦͕̘͖̻̜͓̲̫͙̝̜̓̒̆͐̈́́͋̾͂́̿̔̈́͊͆͗̓̒͌̐̓̔̕͘͘͝͝͝Ä̶̧̢̡̧̨̧͖͈̳͉̰͓̗̹̥͖͍͍͚̬̹̪̗̤̭̟̗̪̞͇͔̞͙̺́̎́̀͗̓̉̈͂͌̔̅̆̉͐̽̎̔̑́̑̇̓̇̈́́̒͛͆͋̽̔͌̏̌͋̒̆͂̈͗̇͆̉͗͛͒͒̔͑͛̉̿̑̒̎̍̂̒̊̒͂̔̓̂̿̕̚̕̕͘͜͝ͅĄ̵̡̡̢̨̢̢̛̛̰͉̳͔̪̭̲͕̩̯͔̘̘̳͙̗͇͙̬̼̲͕̞͕̫̲̘͚̩̬͉͖̲̺̫̳̝̣̲̤̠̠̫̭̻͕̖͔̰̲̫͖̙͎̟͕̭̥̰̤̺̙͈̘̤̳̩̙̘̯̘̗̦͈̤͖̣̬͖̟͌̐͑̒̂͋̓͊̓̎͊̐̋̾͐̽̋̀̍̇̇̈́͌͛̅͛̄͂̋̃͛̅̄̈́̎̽̕̚̕͘͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͠ͅÅ̴̢̡̨̢̡̦̻̩͕̭͎̰̳̻͓͖͔̞̗̜̖̹͓̠̖̖̪̼̫̲̬̮̠͕͎̠̠̘͙̖̱̩͙̣͇̭̱̗̠̩͎͕̫̞̩̹̦͎͎͉͎̮̺̬͎̦͖̦̠͎͎͖͓͖̰̬̜̞̬̩͎̺̳͔̔̆̍̋͂́̒̌̅̏̈́̽̽͗͗͛̑̇̊̉͑̿͐̒̓̒̂̏͆͊͆̂̍̎̓̑̈́̌̈́͜͜ͅͅͅỮ̴̢̧̡̧̢̛̟͎̣̘̬̜̮̳̼̖͉̫̻͈̦̱͉̲̞̲͖̤̪̗̗̱̬̥̗̜̩̘̫̅̓͊͐̆͗͑́̂̋̽̐̈́͊͛͊̀̓͒̾̒͊̾͑̉͆̽̓̎̓͐́̈͋́̾̐̐̿̾͋̎̎̓̇̆͑̔̅̍̑̌̿̏̎̅͒̌̋̎̍̈́̊̀̋̇̇̕̚̚̕̕̚͜͠͝͝͝͠͝Ữ̵̧̡̢̞̘̖̲͎̜̯̳̠̞͓͓͕͔̘̜̟͎͖̼̦̲̘̤̦̞͍͈̠͕̩͚̯̰͔̙̼̞̭̏͒̄̐̊͆͌͛̔̀̔̊͂̾̎͒̀̅̈̈̅̔̈̓̿͑̈́̔͋͌͋̇̈͒̋͌̏͊̀̓̾͂̎͋̌͒͆̋̿̍̅͒̑̍̀̂̔̏̽̈́̈̍̆̽͌̿̒̍͋̍͘̕̕̕̕̕̕̕̕̚͜͝͝͠ͅͅͅU̵͕̰̫̻̼̫̤̼̱̝̤̮͈̞̤̱̝̥̥̪̩̝̮̻͚̥̠͔̬͕̤͙̭̪̙̘͉̝̮̾̆̾̅́̎̉͋̋́́̓̈̽͆̽̅̈̈́͑͆̇̇̐̆̓͊͂̓͂͐̌͒̎͘͘͝͝͝͝ͅU̶͓͉͇̪͉͖͔̦̯̬̘̪̒̀̇͜Û̴̬̹͙͖̳̘͈̩͇̖̟͓̣͍̰̠̘̣̒̌̆̏̽͊̋̔̔͘͝͠U̸̧̡̨̧̧͍͔̭̱̮̣̳̪̼̫͕̟̭͖̫̭̰̤̰͚̱̹̥̺̟̗͉̰͇̥͈̥̹̠̤͓͙͈͇̾̒̊̃̄̏̊͆̔͛̈̽̎͑̃͋̓͂̌̾̇̆͌̈̈́̌͂̒͆̍̆̆̀̄̽̚̕̕͘̚͜͝͝G̶̡̛͕͈̝̠̰͚̣̣̬͍̰̈́̉̄̽̈́̔͐̓̒͆͑͐͒̎̈́́̈̈́̈́̍̈́̐̈́͒̈́̄̔̈́̋̓̎̋̚͘̚̕͘͘͝͝͝G̵̨̢̧̯̮̻̥̲̘̤̣̠̒͆̈̃̒̾͌̃̎̋͒̋̊̃̋̃̄͆̀̓̓̈̐̃̃̊͛̄̉̈̋̇͝G̵̡̧̛̭͓͖̠̮̥̠̘͕͔͉͓̺̩̪͇̾̇͐̂̒̒̒̋͗͒̿̉́̈́͊̐͑̒̂̈͂̊̽͒͂̈̏̊̈́͐̆̂̐́̕͘͝͝͝͝ͅĞ̴̠̲͉̠̺̟̾͋̋̔͐̈́́̋͊̐̈́͛͋͋̃͑̿͒̉̕̚͝H̷̨̨̨̢̨͚̫͖͇̤̤̟̖̦̥͇̗͉͚̟̞̲͙̺̞̬͙͇͇̩̞̣̣͎͕̯̥͙͙͕̩̠̦̯̟̫̑̎̾̑̈̓̋̎̈́̈̊̎͌̏͑͌̄͒̀͌̍͗́͋̈́̆̂̀̾͊̈́͌̐͗̕͘͘͝͠Ḩ̸̡̨̢̬̪͈͉͈̩͓̘̣̘͚̜͔̯̲̘̣͚̖̭̟̹͚̹͎̻̥̗̱͛̄͂̈͛̌̈́̿̑̄͊̈́̇͊͐̊̋̒͗̈́̈́̑̚̕͜͜͜͜H̸̡̛̪͔̦̠̠̙̪̼̩̭͓͍͙̗̞̬̣̩̊͊̍͛̈́͆̇̏̀͛̊̃̈́̿͛͂̑̐̐͒̿͋̿̊̈́̂̑̈́́̆̐̑̃̃̾̃͛̏̊̆̈́̓̍͊̄̽̿͆̏͋̇̽̓̊͐̅́͑̈̈́̒̎̏̏͌̑͑̈́̿̕̚̚̚͘͠͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝H̸̢̨̨̡̱̣͉̠̩̥̯̪͚̱̠͓̗̻͖̳̜̱͍̖͈̮̩͚͍͈͓͔̣͔͉̰̲̞͚̜̭͎̱̫̖̟̫̮̮̫̹̰͓̾̂̓͐̎͗̅̍̃͐̇̉̇̋͐̍̄̂̈̔̅͐͛̎̓̂̽͌́̈́̏̈́̐͛̈́̉̃̈́̈́̃̌̓̾̎͂̐͘̚̚̕͘͜͠͝͝͝͠͝͝H̶̢͗̔̉̽̐̉͛̃̒̐̂͐̈́̂̍̌̍̋̍͆̃́̾̀̽̿͒̑̅̇̈́͌̽̂̽͐͗̽̿̾̌͗͋̚̚̕͘͝͝͝H̶̛̛̪̹̫̖̯̻̆̏͆͌̏̅̾̽̅̌̀̓̈́͆͗͂͊̂̒͛̈̊̆̏̔̇̀̈̿̌̓̍̉̾̈́̄̎͛͑̆̅̋̑͒̒̉̈́͋̉͂̃̍̾̆͒͐̽̐̓̓͗͒͆͘̚̚̚͜͝͠͠͝H̷̢̨̨̡̧̡̨̡̛͎̲̟̫̳̫̫̲̰͔͎̜͓͇̲̺̘͔̪̩̗̭̬̩̩̘̲̩̪͓̺̱̪̼̹̦̥͉̖̠͇͔̱͔͉̯̩̼̥̠̲̬̥̱̯̣̤̥̮͍̲̣̠̼̮̻̭͇̟̳̼̱͓̞̞͚̤̬̯̞̖̃̂͆̈̒̄̿̃̎̂̊̓̀͂̀̑̌͐̆̉͒̇̐̈͂̚̚͜͝͝͝͝͠ͅ—"_**

****

_CRACK._

_“_ **NO.** ” Willow silences him with another stinging slap across the face. “NO. I am putting the kibosh on this **RIGHT NOW.** ”

Wilson rubs his cheek, too stunned to argue.

 **“Ṇ̸̡̈́ĕ̴̙̖v̶̙̗̀ë̶̢̫r̸̳̪̐ ̸̳͕͌̿t̵͉͗̿ḧ̵́͜o̸̖̙̍̎ů̸̧̳͝g̸̣̱͗ḥ̶̂̑t̴̺̔̈ ̴͓̉Į̵͈̓'̷̛̛̩d̸̰͋ ̴͉̟̕b̴̨͔̒è̴̻̗ ̸̭̬͋s̵̭̒o̶̟̝̅̇ ̷̙g̷̖̐̓r̸̩̅a̸̩̍͠t̶̞̉̐ẽ̷̹f̵̨̺u̶̘͌͜ḻ̷͝ ̶̖̬̈̓f̷̝̣̊̐o̷̖͔̓͠r̴͍̓͒ ̵̨̈ỵ̵͐̽ợ̵u̷͍̐,̴͕̬͋ ̵̦̇͑M̴̤̍ŝ̵͚.̸̯̫͝ ̵͓͑Ẅ̷̠́͜i̸͍͐͝l̴͇͇̒̍l̶̞̚o̶̖̣̕̕w̸͈̌.̵̢̝̊̇** ”

Maxwell looks like death warmed over, to put it charitably. Back bowed, he can barely stand, having to rely on Wendy and Webber for support. His skin is drawn and tighter than ever, like too sudden a movement will tear it like tissue. His ghastly pallor—ghastlier than usual—provides stark contrast with the blood and Fuel still dripping from his mouth. His hair is a fried, tousled mess, and his jagged fangs feature much more prominently, even when he closes his mouth to swallow.

 _“Maxwell!”_ Wilson runs to him, cupping his cheek before his brain can catch up with his actions. “Stars, you’re like _ice!_ I haven’t seen you look this ragged since you were still on the Throne!”

“ **Y̴̧̹ỏ̷̬͆ú̵̟͝ ̸̮̘͊d̴̲̻͋ȯ̷̞ṉ̷͔'̸̧̦t̸͉̂͜ ̶͓͌̏l̷̖̤̊o̷̢͆̎o̴͙̣͒͠k̵̻̖̋ ̶̘͐́s̷͚̻̓o̸̪̚̚ ̶͇̺̆̾g̸̦̏̈́o̷̥͉͗o̶̻͗d̵̘̿͑͜,̴̤̥̽ ̶̘͙̏̓e̵̠͍̒ǐ̵̛̗t̶̙̆̃h̷̛̳̐ͅe̶̹̝̒r̷͓̦̐,̵̘͍͂ ̵͕̄p̴̣͖͗a̵̡̗͑l̵͍̾.̴͈̬̍̍** ” He closes his eyes and brings one sharp Shadow claw to rest over Wilson’s hand. “ **Y̴̺̲͆o̴̩̚u̵̡̦͐̈́'̵̮͋r̶̤̉͗ͅe̵̪͈̐͐ ̶̘͕̑̍s̶̫õ̸̫ ̵͚̣͆w̵̻͉͊a̵̛̭̩͘r̸̬̉m̵͓̾̑.̴̬̤͛̔** ”

“Mr. Wilson!” Webber scuttles up Maxwell and pounces from his shoulder to Wilson’s. “You have to let Mr. Maxwell drink your blood! It’s the only way!”

**“S̴̩͙̤̱̝̥͙̼͉̪̽̅͛͜͜t̷̨͎̙̩̠̬̞̞͚̳̀̀͠͝ͅi̷̢̡͍͕̠̫̞̼̜̺̰̣͉̕͜ļ̶̳͈̣̰̙̘̗̙̣̻̓͐̑͛̕͝l̷̨͎͇̦̭͍̥̲̲̦̗̠̓̉̀͌̃̄͌̆͆̈́͛̏̐ͅ ̷̝̙̼͈̙̓͜͠n̴̢̨̥̙̗̬͇͉̻̞̭̮͈̮̤͒̋̍͋̀̒̄̕͝ȏ̷̧̨̩͗͆̎̽̉̾̔͊̍͘̚͝t̵̪̰̬͇͚̲̫̖͔̠̫͎̩͑͒̅̃͌̋̆̚ͅ ̸̻̟̥͂͆̿͜ȁ̸̯̥̞̫͍͕̮̽͂͛͋̎̌̂̌̂̅̏̐̉̚ͅͅ ̷̼̮̗̫͓̥̘͍̗͕̌͐̾̿͊͐̋ͅͅv̴̩͚̠̻̲͙̦̔̍̽̈́͆͋̄̈́͐͆̑̐̽̚͠a̵̧̧̛͉̭̤̜̯̙̜̘͉̦̜̤̍̎͑͐̔̑̔͂͝͠m̷̜̙͚̪͈̼̦̪̌̊̐̾̕p̴̰ȉ̷̧̛̲͍̰̯̮͇̻͓̲͔͔̎̐̽̓̎͑͊̽͝͝͠ṛ̶̭͙̥͓̻͋̈͂̓̀͊̓̈̏̈͊̓e̶̢̗̼̣̻̜̝̰̫͚̤̬̳͈̾̊͐̽͝ͅ.̴̨̨̞̤̺̖̗̩̦̺̞̝̘͂̔̈́̓̇͜**

**T̴̤͙͋h̶̦͂͘ŏ̷̭̜ú̴̟͜g̴̢̍̏h̶̹͗̚ ̴̘̚I̶̧̳͝'̸̜̏̿ṁ̸̯͉ ̷̛͈̩s̸͕̠ṳ̴̆͘͜r̷̩͑̓ẹ̷͝ ̸̘̀̐H̶͕͆i̶̝͂g̷̤̾ĝ̴̮̯͝s̸͈̠͘b̸̹̄̋u̵͔͑r̵̩̮͌͆y̵̗̾̂'̸̡̻͑s̵͉ ̴͓̯̏ ̷̯͒b̶̼̂̾l̷̞̺̾̾ŏ̸̜̊õ̵̼̪d̴̗̽͘ ̸̳̔͝i̸̛͍̣ŝ̸̟ ̸̣̍̑d̴̤̬̽é̴̫̎l̴̹̺̐i̷̳̜̅c̷̙̮̈́i̴̞͠o̷͎͘u̴̧͙͝ŝ̸̙.̶̺̉̚”**

“See!? See!?” He tugs insistently on Wilson’s hair. “We told you, we told you! And you didn’t believe us!”

“Ow, ow! Stop yanking! _Stars,_ what is with everybody and messing with the hair!? Webber, Maxwell is _joking._ ”

Actually, he was pretty sure Maxwell _wasn’t_ joking about that, especially given the content of the dream they'd shared. . .

But he really _did_ look like he'd lost a lot of blood. And Fuel. It was _everywhere,_ all over him as well as the ground, readily visible even in the dying light of the hastily-made campfire he was sure hadn’t been there before.

 **“J̷̤͒͝o̶͙̾ķ̸̒̈́è̶̱̈́s̶̢̥̓̈́,̸̧̛̠̀ ̷̱͙̌ḩ̶̽u̶̗̭͂h̴̥̖͌.̷̻̺̉̋”** Maxwell takes a tentative step forward and nearly falls—

“Uncle, be careful—!”

—but he catches himself on Wilson, holding on to his shoulders. Webber scrambles to latch on to the back of Wilson’s neck, instead.

**“T̵͈̺̅ë̶́͜l̵͎̾͑͜l̸͇͋̏ ̵̠̍͠m̸̖̲̎̅ë̶͍́͜ ̷̭̽ä̷̖͚ ̵̙̼̈́j̷̨̹͑ô̶͍̊k̶͍̋é̸͙,̸̻̘̏͆ ̷̯̞͆H̵̡̾͂ỉ̶̖͐ġ̷̪g̵͔̰͊̔s̸̢͐b̶̯̜́u̸̦͊̔r̷̝̉͠y̶̼̒.̸̛̤̲”**

“What!? Maxwell, you’re _dying!_ We have to get you and everyone else back to camp before Charlie comes around to finish the job! And I _really_ don’t think we have enough Effigies for all of us anymore!”

 **“J̷̢̨̖͇̻͇̠̹͇̯̙̜͋͛́̆͑̅̓͐̈́͜ư̴̫̹̯͈̯̙̲̪̭̔͊̉̀̂͂̋͊͋̒̓͘ͅs̶̡̧͖̖͈̮̯̰̩͊̔́̽͑̿͊̏t̸̛̩͚͍̙̞̩̑͒͌̆̉͐̎͊̋̄̐͘̕͝ͅ ̴̯͙̟̫̜̦̱̩͓̻͗̔̓̈́̍̌̅̒̎͒̕͠ơ̴̡͖͉̘̮̭͉̼͎͖̰̣̺̳̦͑͊̒̑̉n̴̰͉̰̂e̵̛͈̓̌͒̄̄͆̆̃͆̓̿̔̕͜,̵̞̔͑̑͐͒̃̈́”** he insists, **“ś̸̭ô̷̭ ̸̪͛I̷̧̎ ̶̼̀k̸̡͐ň̸͜ỏ̶̖w̸̻͊ ̴̖̔i̷̛̟t̸͍̄’̸̫͑s̶̲̋ ̷̠̎ỳ̴͓ô̷̠u̶̦̽ ̷̦͑t̸̮͑a̸͊ͅl̶̠̓k̵͙̓ì̶̠n̷̲͝ǧ̶̯ ̸̞̾t̸̨h̴͔̆ŗ̷̈́ȯ̷͍u̵̩͌g̵͉̋h̴̺ ̷̖͐y̶̖̐o̵̲̿u̶̯͐r̷̘̋ ̶̤́b̷͍̓ỏ̴̲d̷̻̈́y̶͓̕ ̷̜͑ạ̸̊n̶̤̔d̵̩̐ ̸̩͆ņ̵̂ỏ̵̖t̸͎̆ ̶͙͝T̵̛̼h̷̲͊ë̴̫́m̵̹̉.̵͕̈́”**

“Maxwell, I—”

**“J̴̥̆ű̶͕s̸͓̕t̸͙̅ ̸̧̈́ọ̸͘n̵̫̂e̷̻͒ ̶̳͗ȯ̴͉f̴̱̍ ̸̮͑y̵͙͠ö̵̫́ù̴͚r̷̩̊ ̶͉͝m̸̛̼a̴͚̚ǹ̶͖y̵̽ͅ ̴̯̇a̴̯͝s̷̥̉ì̷̯n̵̻͑i̷̥͗ñ̸͍ȩ̶̇,̶̺ ̴̺̅ī̷̖n̷̝͆s̸̫͆ǐ̷͓p̶͕͋i̴͔̎d̸̬͐ ̶̰̈́p̶͔̈́u̴̹̓n̴̛͖s̷̥͌ ̷͈͘w̶̢̏i̴̗͋l̶̹͋l̴̲̄ ̴̹͝ḍ̷̂o̵̙͐.̸̝̏ ̵̰̓J̴̝͠ű̶͙s̵͖͂t̸̯̏ ̷͎͐s̵͍͆ö̷̥ ̷̭̕I̷̯ ̸͚͠ḳ̶̽n̶̊ͅo̴͍͠w̶̠̒ ̶̤̒y̴̹͌ö̸ͅû̶̳'̷̳͛r̶̨͋e̶̡̓ ̴͙̓f̵̛̥ȓ̷̲é̶̱e̵͖͋ ̶̟̽ȯ̸̻f̸̛͔ ̷̮̈́T̶̪͗h̸̤͐e̷͖͠i̵͇͑r̴͍͝ ̴̳͌i̵̬n̶͕͗f̶̙͑ļ̷̔ǔ̷̺e̵̞n̸͇̎c̷̗̓e̶̞͊.̷͍̔”**

“U-Um, o-okay, uh. . .do you know what comes between sex and fear?”

**“Ṅ̸̘o̶̯͝,̸͇̉ ̵̗̌w̶͚̏h̶͗ͅȃ̸͙t̵͍͝.̴͚̔”**

Wilson gives him the stupidest shaky grin, and holds up five fingers. _“Fünf.”_

Maxwell stares at him in disbelief. And then his eyes unfocus, rolling back into his head.

**“. . .O̴̖̒h̸̜̚ ̵̞̒t̶̝͑h̶̟̏a̶̛̯n̸̗̎k̶̢͘ ̴͉͆G̶̠̀o̴̠͌d̴̻͝.̵̘̑”**

And then Maxwell collapses right into him.

“. . .Is he dead?”

“No, Webber, he just passed out.”

“Or he’s faking just so he can give you a hug. But. . .I don’t think he's faking.”

“No, I don’t think so, either. Maxwell would never get blood and Nightmare goop all over his suit on purpose.” He thinks a moment. “I'm pretty sure I can carry him back. He's certainly light enough. The problem is he’s so stupid-tall he's kinda hard to maneuver.”

“Are you sure you are not just too short?”

“. . .whose side are you on, Wendy?”

Wendy gives a quiet chuckle in spite of her worry. “Just tell me how I may assist.”

“Can do. Webber, you’re going to have to hop down so I can do this properly.”

He struggles pick up Maxwell, and bending down, manages to kind of sling his limp body around his shoulders (with some assistance from Webber and Wendy).

“Okay, so if I just position him like so, with me acting as a fulcrum, you get—hah!” He straightens up, holding Maxwell in position. “Perfectly even weight distribution! Thank you _,_ science!” He gives Wendy and Webber what he hopes is a reassuring grin. “And thank you two for the assistance.”

He walks back to where Wickerbottom, Warly, and Wes, and Willow are gathering the Nightmare Fuel dropped by the Shadows. “Uh, guys, we can probably leave that stuff for now. Um. . .is everybody okay?”

“I think so.” Warly seems unusually subdued, probably from fatigue. “We're all a little worse for wear, but alive. I have the most terrible headache, though.”

“I believe we all do, in part due to the extended exposure to potent dark magic. But I can no longer hear the whispers, at the least.”

“. . .I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble for everyone.”

“What’s done is done, I suppose. What is important is that you are free from the Shadow’s influence once more. And I do believe I am partially to blame for not taking your concerns regarding your apparent sensitivity to the Fuel more seriously. But I never would have thought that Maxwell himself. . .” She abruptly ends this train of thought with a shake of her head. “Come now, there will be time for further discussion once we are back safely within the camp's walls.”

“We just have to figure out how to drag _Monsieurs_ Woodie and Wolfgang back. I fear I am not _quite_ that strong.”

“Fear nöt, feast-förger! Nö man alive can höpe tö best me in feats öf strength because

_I!_

_AM!_

_NÖ!_

_MAN!_ ”

With a mighty roar, Wigfrid hefts both Woodie _and_ Wolfgang over her head and runs back to the direction of their base camp, shouting some sort of unintelligible battle cry all the way.

“. . .Holy crap, she’s strong.”

“And still suffering negative sanity effects, I fear. Or. . .perhaps not. It is admittedly hard to tell with Wigfrid.”

“Maybe I should’ve just added Maxwell to the body pile. She probably wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Willow laughs, and the remaining group begins their trek. “He's _your_ ball and chain, now. You’re bound by another contract.”

“Maxwell never _stopped_ being my ball and chain. And I don’t remember entering into any other ‘contract.’”

Willow grins, elbowing him in the shoulder. “Really? Because _I_ do. Sealed it with a kiss, even. A big, wet, sloppy, magical kiss.”

“. . .S-Stop teasing me about that. It was _your_ idea.”

Warly chuckles. “It was quite. . .stunning, for sure. I don’t think I'll ever be able to forget it as long as I live.”

“Oh, come on, Warly, not _you,_ too.”

“Besides, then you gave him a big old smooch afterwards in front of the Postern!” Willow gives a melodramatic sigh, resting the back of her hand against her forehead as if swooning. “How romantic, kissing under an arch full of roses. . .”

Wilson is sure his face is hot enough to give off steam at this juncture.

“Right at the site where science and magic came together to build an inter-dimensional portal. The fruits of your labor, as well as your _love._ ”

**_“O̸̧̧̞̻̺͑̓͑̀̆͊͝ͅK̶̹͔̙̜̗̔̑̽̍̑̓͆͒͒͆̉̕̕͘Ą̷̹̠͒͊̑͊̆͑͆͋̕Ỷ̵̢͎͙͙͓͉̓͆̔̃͆̌̽͘̚͘͘,̴̨̻̼̲̝̭̐̈́͋ͅ ̵̢̧̗̯͓̰͇̹̯̳̩̇̈́̿̎͆͂͋͘È̷̘͚̮̬̪̹̘͔͖̀̃̈́͐͗̉͘N̵̨̼̤̮͊̐̏̿̒̕̚͘͝O̴͇͚̺͚̠̻̣͊̽͜͝͝Ṳ̵̧͈̞͓͍̭̦̬͇͚̮̖̮̮͋G̶̗͙̤̗̘̺̩͎̖̲̗̹̘̈́̐̒̈́̀̾̓̈̀̏̏̓̅͠H̸̦͔̙̦̑̌́̑͒̋͆̍̐̉̿.̴̞͋̌”_ **

****

Everyone stops to look at Wilson in surprise.

“. . .s-sorry. I'm still a little tense.”

“. . .It _has_ been quite a long day,” Wickerbottom agrees, and with that, the subject is dropped.

□■□■□■□■

Warly’s Crockpots bubble away as Wilson works in silence, cleaning and bandaging each Survivors’ wounds. Wendy, Webber, and Willow are helping Wes set up a Tent for himself in the area Wilson’s used to be, and Wigfrid and Wickerbottom are constructing Siesta Lean-Tos around each log seat surrounding the campfire to provide shelter from the impending rain. According to the Rainometer, it should start raining come morning.

Woodie and Wolfgang are unharmed, but still unconscious. Wolfgang fainting from fright was not unexpected, but Woodie was made of tougher stuff—Wilson surmises that he had likely overtaxed himself by staying in his Weremoose form too long. The two rest on cots from the sickbay that have been moved to the central firepit.

Not a single Survivor speaks. Despite Wilson trying to keep everyone’s spirits up—he had immediately felt guilty for snapping, as well as for the ordeal he had put everyone through—the camp is too exhausted, physically and mentally, to keep up the façade. So he just. . .gives up.

Wilson feels just as empty a husk as the rest, if not even more so. The only thing keeping him working is nerves. As the rest of the camp waits for dinner, he lays Maxwell across one of the logs, holding his head in his lap and dutifully scrubbing the blood and Fuel from his suit. And as an afterthought, his face. Truth be told, Maxwell probably cared more about his suit staining, which Wilson had anticipated. _He has his pet scientist well-trained, I guess._

“Soup's on,” Warly mumbles with none of his usual enthusiasm, and everyone sips their Bone Bouillon in silence.

Wilson sets down his empty bowl and finds Wes staring at him across the fire, a look of concern plastered across his face along with his running makeup. _Going to be okay?_ he signs.

 _Think so,_ Wilson signs back. _You?_

Wes nods. _Happen often? The Shadows._

 _Recent development. Prolonged contact with. . ._ He points to the head in his lap.

 _Unfortunate. I'm sorry._ Wes looks genuinely sympathetic. _Did you know?_

_Suspected. Confirmed today._

Wes scowls. _Difficult man. For shame._

Wilson almost laughs. _Tell me about it. Why did he trap you?_

 _Displeased him._ Wes rolls his eyes and uses air quotes for emphasis.

_How?_

_Hates mimes._

Wilson snorts. _Sorry. Not funny._

_Kind of funny._

Wilson pinches his thumb and forefinger together in an “a little" gesture.

“What are you two chatting about over there?” Willow asks.

“He's telling me all his evil plans,” Wilson answers, deadpan, still signing so Wes can “hear" him. “It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch out for.”

Wes hunches over and steeples his fingers together as if hatching an evil plot, wearing a shady smile.

“Told you."

“I've been meaning to ask, Mr. Higgsbury. How did you manage to become so proficient in signing?”

“I'd been living in New England before. . .before. There’s a school for the deaf there. Alexander Graham Bell taught there, if you can believe it. And he’s such a great inventor. . .and since I was _supposed_ to be a doctor, it seemed like a useful skill to learn. But really, I think I thought it would make me a better scientist if I taught myself things the greats knew. Like Edison. Did you know he also suffered hearing loss? I taught myself Morse Code because of him.

. . .why are you all looking at me like that?”

“Probably because ‘I taught myself Morse Code and sign language because these are things famous scientists know and I want to be like them' is the most Wilson Percival Higgsbury thing I have ever heard in my life,” Willow quips.

Wilson folds his arms and scowls. “Fine. Wes and I will talk and the rest of you can go kick rocks.”

_I think it’s a noble endeavor, Wilson._

“. . .thanks, Wes.”

“The pursuit of knowledge, for whatever the reason, should never be something for which one should be ashamed, as far as I am concerned. I, for one, am grateful for your unexpected talents.”

Wilson lowers his head to hide his blush. “T-Thank you, Ms. Wickerbottom. But. . .”

“But?”

“. . .The pursuit of knowledge is how I got in this mess.”

“Which one?” Willow teases. “The one with Maxwell, or the other one with Maxwell?”

“. . .Willow, I'm _really_ not in the mood.”

“Really? Even with that silver fox in your lap? I'd be _in the mood,_ if I were you.”

_“Willow.”_

“Oh, lighten up, will you? Just give him another kiss when he wakes up and—oh.” Willow sinks, looking ashamed. “OH. Sorry, Wilson, I forgot.”

Wilson sighs. Abigail settles next to him to lean on his shoulder.

“Aww, is Abigail comforting you? That’s really sweet. You seemed like you were having a pretty intense conversation earlier.”

Wendy joins to sit beside them. “Were you able to hear her, Wilson?”

“Yes, actually. I think it was because, as Abby said,” he gives her a smirk, “I was ‘a couple finger sandwiches short of a tea party.’”

Willow laughs. “That’s pretty good, Abbs.”

“Now that I think on it, Uncle said he could sometimes hear Abigail more clearly after summoning too many Shadow Puppets in succession, because doing so takes such a toll on the mind.”

Wilson’s brow knits. “Wendy, does that mean you—?”

“Oh no, you needn’t worry.” She rests a hand on his arm. “I do not experience mental deterioration when communing with spirits, nor do I need to in order to do so.”

“Oh, good. That’s a relief.”

“Our young Wendy is really quite talented. Not just because of her innate abilities in all things spectral and her knowledge of the occult. We may actually have a potential practitioner of white magic in our little motley crew.”

“Wait, really?” He looks at Wendy. “So magic might _actually_ run in the family?”

“It’s kinda hard to remember, but I think it was Wendy who actually wound up saving your bacon.”

“Now that you mention it, Willow,” Warly adds, “I vaguely remember her joining Maxwell in the incantation. And then, ah. . .a lot of screaming.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember that now! Man, that was freaky.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Wilson holds up a hand. “What’s all this about screaming?”

“Oh, whatever Wendy was doing must've _hurt,_ because you started screaming your head off. I thought you were going to tear your throat out. You ever heard the sound someone makes when they burn to death? It sounded like _that._ But like, ten times _worse_.”

“. . .Ah.” He thinks a moment before joking, “maybe you should purify Maxwell, too.”

Wickerbottom holds her chin, pensive. “The thought _did_ actually cross my mind. But I fear he may be too corrupted by the Fuel. A purification ritual might kill him.”

“Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?”

“. . .man, Wilson, that’s ice-cold.”

“Oh, come off it, Willow. He makes jokes about killing me all the time. And only twenty percent of those are actually _jokes._ The rest are just veiled threats.”

“. . .so why do you want to kiss him so badly, again?”

Warly chuckles. “Have you seen the man's lips? It’s only natural Wilson would find him so irresistible. One could even say he’s _sous son charme._ ”

“. . .aaaaand we’re back to making fun of me again, I see.” Wilson supposes he should just be glad everybody is talking again—the delicious soup likely helped, Warly’s cooking somehow always managed to nourish both body _and_ soul—but every conversation seemed to devolve into jokes at his expense, however lighthearted. And he was just a _little_ too raw right now to take it on the chin.

“Sorry, _mon ami,_ couldn’t resist.”

“Please try harder, then.”

“Oh, Wilson. Don’t take it personally, Warly. You know how grumpy he gets when he's tired.”

Warly walks over to give him a cup of Soothing Tea and a pat on the head. _“Oui, il a tendance à être comme ça.”_

“Warly, I am literally _right here_ and can understand what you’re saying.” His scowl eases, just a little, as he takes a sip. _“Mais merci pour le thé,”_ he mutters into the cup.

Warly ruffles his hair. “We'll help you with _Monsieur Grand-Mystérieux-et-Beau,_ don’t worry.”

Wendy laughs. “Let me guess, ‘Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome?’”

“. . .you know he'd probably murder you if he heard that, right?”

Warly shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“. . .I don’t know if you’re all just taking this really well, still insane, or have been here way too long.”

“ _Problement_ all three, if we’re being honest. Would anyone else care for tea?”

□■□■□■□■

“Oh, hey, I think he’s finally waking up. Alright, everyone, on three. Ready? One, two. . .”

**““SAY PAL, YOU DON’T LOOK SO GOOD.””**

Maxwell groans, shielding his face with his arm. “I think I had a nightmare like this once.”

“Good evening, _darling,”_ comes a sigh equal parts exhausted and exasperated _._ “Welcome to Hell.”

Maxwell removes his arm to squint at the figure above him. “Higgsbury. . .?”

“The one and only.” A hand comes to rest on his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“Like absolute death.”

“That’s funny, you feel like Maxwell to me.”

“. . .I am not even going to dignify that with a response.”

“Isn’t that technically a response?”

Maxwell weakly raises a hand to flick Wilson on the nose.

“Ow! Yeah, okay, you’re fine. Here, I'll help you sit up.”

He carefully raises the magician to a sitting position, but then he sort of. . .tilts, leaning heavily into Wilson’s shoulder and closing his eyes.

“Gettin' cozy with your beau already, eh? Maxwell, you dog.”

“Silence, blockhead. Do not mistake this for affection. I am simply trying to stay upright.”

Woodie only grins. “Whatever you say, ya big hoser. All's I know is that the doc is lookin' the happiest I've seen him since I woke up.”

“Y-Yes, well, maybe you should just go back to sleep. _Doctor’s orders._ ”

Woodie laughs. “Glad you’re doin' better, bud.”

Seeing Wilson’s mood has improved—and that Maxwell has freed up some space—Webber climbs into the scientist’s lap. Wendy moves to sit beside her uncle, instead, along with Abigail.

“Awww. They look like one big happy family! It’s so sweet my teeth are gonna rot right outta my head.”

Wickerbottom chuckles. “You know, that actually reminds me. Same-sex pairings are quite common among the _Cygnus atratus._ Often a male swan in a same-sex partnership will mate with a female, and then chase her away once a clutch of eggs has been lain. They are known to adopt abandoned eggs, as well. Thirty percent of mating pairs of the _Phoebastria immutabilis_ are also homosexual, and will also raise chicks together.”

“I remember reading that as well. Fitting, because Maxwell is an albatross around my neck.”

The magician snorts.

“Ugh,” Woodie groans, “I hate birds.”

“Well, how about giraffes? And lions. . .and rams. . .and bats. . .” Wilson ticks off his fingers as he lists. “And bison, and bonobos, and hyenas, and whales, and dolphins, and macaques. . .”

“No offense, Wilson, but I don’t want to think about your ‘caque.’”

Wilson and Wickerbottom both glare at her.

“. . .juvenile, Ms. Willow, but I at least found that one amusing.”

“. . .I never expected you of all people to appreciate the finer points of dick jokes, Maxwell.”

“We all have our vices.”

Warly walks over to hand Maxwell a steaming mug of Bone Bouillon. “Here, you’re probably starving. I also felt this would be more preferable to a bowl, considering you are likely the most fatigued of all of us. Once you’re finished, I can make you some Soothing Tea, as well.”

“ _Je l’apprécie, mon bon monsieur._ You are really too good to all of us.”

Warly actually _blushes._ “From you, that is high praise indeed. Thank you, Maxwell.”

“Hahahaha, Maxwell, you _do_ care about us! You’re going soft, old man.”

Maxwell grins, eyes still closed, and gives Willow the “backwards V” gesture.

“Yeah, yeah. I'd say ‘up yours' too, but I don’t think anything else can fit with that stick already up your ass.”

_“Ms. Willow.”_

_“Ms. Wickerbottom._ Hey, actually, I have a question. What exactly _is_ a macaque?”

“The _Macaca sylvanus?_ It is a type of small primate.”

“No kidding. What’s the smallest primate?”

“The smallest? That would be _Cebuella pygmaea,_ or the pygmy marmoset.”

“Gotcha. Okay, this question is for Wilson. A macaque is the same size as a pygmy marmoset, right?”

“What? No, that’s too small to be a macaque.”

“Well, jeez, Wilson, no one likes a braggart.”

Wilson blinks at her. Then facepalms so hard he nearly breaks his nose. _“Oh for the love of—”_

Maxwell _loses_ it. And in the most undignified and decidedly un-dapper way imaginable. And with a mouthful of soup to boot.

“. . .I dö nöt think I have ever börne witness to söup cöming öut öf a man’s nöse beföre. I am frankly disgusted and disturbed.”

The rest of the camp is _dying._ Wickerbottom holds her face in her hands to hide her laughter. Even Wes is doubled over (silently, of course). Wilson just holds his head in defeat and wordlessly hands Maxwell a handkerchief.

 _“Oh my God,”_ Willow wheezes, wiping tears from her eyes, “I think I'm gonna barf from laughing so hard.”

“Urrgh,” Warly groans, “m-my stomach. . .”

“Aww, c'mon, Wilson, buddy, that was _hilarious._ ” Woodie is wiping his eyes as well.

Wilson heaves a frustrated sigh. “. . . Look, it’s just. . .nobody else is seeing the pattern emerging, here? We start bonding, everybody’s laughing and joking and having fun, and then the universe decides to kick our teeth in. Get too comfortable during Spring? Bam, Moose/Goose. Summer going well? Nope, can’t have that, hope you like putting out Dragonfly fires the rest of the season. Autumn, the best season! Food is plentiful, the weather is mild, and oh look, here comes Mr. Bearger to wreck your everything! And WINTER!” He turns on Maxwell now, emphasizing each word with an accusatory finger-jab into the shoulder. “Don’t. Get. Me. Started. On. Winter. Do you know how many times I got turned inside-out by a Deerclops during your little happy fun ‘King of Winter' challenge!? _DO YOU!?_ ”

“. . .I do, yes.”

“Oh, come on, Wilson, you're not the only one—”

“No, _you_ come on, Willow! Everybody was all in a bad mood until Wes and I started talking, and then it was all ‘haha, let’s make fun of the scientist for falling for a murderous psychopath again, that always cheers everybody up.’ I have been the butt of the joke my entire life **a̸̛̝͔͑ň̴̪͚͌d̴͍̰̓̃ ̷͕͚̌̀I̴͛̏͜ ̴̞̳̩̽a̷̤͕̹̍͒m̴̼̓͑̎ ̷̩̐s̷̨̜͖̈̈́̌i̴̪̳̹͋͌̔c̷̫̔͝k̸̞̘͋̍͜ ̴̼̎o̵͖̘̜͂̌̊f̵̝͝ ̷̨̛̹̏͑î̴͜t̸̥͛.̶̪̪͇̅̃̑** ”

“Mr. Wilson. . .”

“Webber, _please._ ” He sets the child down and stands. “These last few days have been nothing but trouble. More so than what usually passes for trouble around here. And you wanna know why? Because I started getting closer to _you._ ” He is towering over Maxwell, now. “You’re _poison._ You’re Midas in reverse. Everything you touch turns to pitch. Including me. _Especially_ me! All because I tried to show you the _barest hint_ of compassion. Which everyone raked me over the coals for, by the way. ‘How could you free the megalomaniac murderpsycho and then put the somehow _even more unhinged_ Night Monster in charge?’ Like that was _my_ fault.

Then all of the sudden I'm vomiting Shadows every other day. And everyone’s mad at _me._ I'm not the one toying with forces beyond my comprehension, here! I only agreed to help you with your incantations so you wouldn’t keep dragging everyone else down. And today it was abundantly clear that even _with_ my help, you don’t have even a fraction of the power you had on the Throne. And when you ran into me, you had no power at all! You couldn’t summon a single Shadow. Not. One.

And _speaking_ of today, you couldn’t even finish the job! A _literal child_ with no magical background did it for you. You’re a sham. A charlatan. A fraud. A—a—a talentless hack magician!”

**This was your fault.**

_You can always trust me to be right, I'm a scientist._

**You did this.**

_The only reason you’re alive is because I told Woodie not to make more work for me._

**Your hubris. . .it was always your weakness.**

_Wilson is too nice. You don’t deserve him._

**You haven't escaped the pull of the Throne.**

_Talentless hack magician._

**It was my power, not his.**

_I have discovered something, a book of sorts._

**He has no real power, just cheap parlor tricks.**

_I have yet to decode it fully,_

**But that’s all magic is, isn’t it?**

_but what little I have deciphered has opened my mind_

**Illusions.**

_to terrifying new possibilities._

**Smoke and mirrors.**

Maxwell rises in one fluid motion. Perfectly poised. Graceful. Magnificent. Expressionless. Made of stone.

“If you are quite finished.”

_Yet each man kills the thing he loves, by each let this be heard,_

He turns on his heel and strides over to Willow, handing her the Codex Umbra.

_The coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword._

“. . .Maxwell?”

“Burn this.”

Willow looks at him in horror. _“What!? Are you crazy!?”_

“Goodnight.”

And in a cloud of smoke, he’s gone.


	8. Adjournment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sometimes you have to feel worse to feel better.”  
> \--Wilson on the Seawreath, _Don’t Starve Together_
> 
> “I'd die to find out what it does."  
> \--Wilson on Abigail’s Flower, because every good story needs some foreshadowing 
> 
> "Sanity is a small price to pay for science!"  
> \--Wilson on the Mad Scientist Lab, _Hallowed Nights_
> 
> "I do love mashed potatoes."  
> \--Maxwell loves Warly’s Creamy Potato Purée, _Don’t Starve Together_
> 
> "I'll permit him to stay so long as he keeps cooking."  
> \--lol okay Maxwell, eat your Hot Dragon Chili Salad, _Don’t Starve Together_
> 
> "What a nice change it is to know someone who cooks.”  
> \--Maxwell about to shove Glow Berry Mousse into his face, _Don’t Starve Together_
> 
>  _Willow always regarded being brought to The Constant as a new beginning. It allowed her to leave everything behind, after all._  
>  \--Willow's Vignette, _The Forge_
> 
>  _Maxwell's extended reign on the Nightmare Throne altered him in ways that are not yet fully understood. He continues to rely heavily on his tome, the Codex Umbra, as a result._  
>  \--Maxwell's Vignette, _The Forge_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit you guys, I hope you like PLOT FOREVER ft. mental breakdowns, mad science, some character backstory, more ghostly chats, and EXTREME THIRST
> 
> Wickerbottom is canonically a widow. I saw that somewhere. It’s implied in her Victorian skin description that she murdered her husband(?) for his money, but I think that’s just playing on the old rich widow trope. I don’t think the real Wickerbottom would actually murder her spouse (nor did she). 
> 
> Maxwell has an interesting line in DST where he says to Ghost Wickerbottom “You know the price of revival as well as I do,” which sounded much more loaded than the usual “hey lemme get you a heart,” so I have an inkling there’s some backstory there. That was the sense I got, at least. BUT THAT'S JUST A THEORY, A GAME THEORY
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE MUCH SEXIER, I PROMISE
> 
> P.S. Tove Lo's "Habits" has been stuck in my head while writing because I was watching someone play through Adventure Mode and they were joking about turning Wilson into a drug addict from the mass quantities of mushrooms he was consuming. I don't even fucking _like_ the song.
> 
> But Maxwell's gone and he's gotta stay high, all the time. To keep him off his mind.

“Ha! I remember that one.”

Wilson pauses in his digging to give Maxwell a look as dispassionate as it is disbelieving.

“And you wonder why everyone gives you a wide berth. You’re depraved.”

Maxwell lights a cigar as he leans on his Shovel, kicking the Skeleton away. The Shadow Diggers continue to disturb the final(?) resting place of the dead independent of their Master's actions, or lack thereof.

“Says the man also defiling Graves. Spare me the pearl-clutching, will you? It ill becomes a former King.”

“And spare _me_. I saved you out of the goodness of my heart, not because I wanted your power. You also _conveniently_ neglected to tell me I'd be the replacement. So thanks for that.” Wilson tamps down the blade of his Shovel further into the soil with the heel of his shoe and hefts another pile of dirt over his shoulder. _“Prick.”_

“I did give you the option of staying awhile to keep me—and T̸̢̡̲̱̥͕͍̲̬̿͐͛̌̈́h̴͔͍̝͍̱͍͒̉̓̄͛̈́͝ẹ̸̛͉̗̓͐̀̿̈́̇͌̒̓ͅm̷̡͍̟̙̟̲͕̹̣̖̲̯̋̓̎̊̍̂͊͐̍͘͜͠͝—company, if you recall.”

“And in a cruel and ironic twist of fate so befitting your little world, here you are to keep me company for eternity, anyway.”

“ _L'enfer, c'est les autres,_ as they say. Whomever they may be.” He takes a pull of his cigar. “By the by, my dear long-suffering martyr, I've just received word from Christ that He'd like you to hop off His cross, as He'd like it back.”

“God doesn’t exist. Also, you’re an asshole.”

Maxwell chuckles. “Quite free with your words around me, aren’t you? I wonder what the others would think to hear the _Gentleman Scientist_ speak like that filthy little firebug that’s attached herself to you like a lamprey. I suppose I should be honored that you trust me enough to drop your proper little high-born façade.”

“Tentative truce notwithstanding, I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you. Which is actually pretty far, if you’d care for a demonstration.”

“You’re aware I have eyes, correct? I've been watching you struggle to dig a hole for ten minutes.”

Wilson’s scowl deepens as he returns to digging with increased fervor. When his Shovel finally hits something, he reaches in to pull out. . .a Ball and Cup.

“Not something a grown man should be caught playing with. Toss it back.”

But Wilson is staring at it, rather sadly. He reaches into his pack and pulls out a small skull.

“What on earth were you carrying _that_ around for?”

“ _You have eyes._ Look how tiny it is. It’s clearly a child’s skull. Probably another one you duped into coming here. Which makes two, by my count. Or two and a half.”

“. . . _again, why_ were you carrying it?”

“Because the poor little guy deserves a proper funeral, especially after the indignity of being eaten by a Spider. At least I think that’s what happened. I can’t tell if he was inside the spider or the spider was inside him. That’s what the legs poking out of the sides make it look like. And it’s kinda freaking me out.” He gives the skull a small pat. “Sorry, little buddy. I know that’s not your fault.”

Maxwell scoffs. “Looking at it now, I think I vaguely remember making a deal with a child other than the girl. Little fool thought he could escape, eh? If only it were that easy. Although,” he bends to grab the skull of the Skeleton he'd previously disturbed, which pops off easily in his hand; he inspects it, and seemingly dissatisfied, tosses it carelessly over his shoulder. “Instead of burying that little spider skull, why not give it here? It would look quite fetching on my desk. A reminder of the good ol' days.”

Wilson is staring at him in horror, cradling the child's skull to his chest. “You’re _sick._ Absolute _scum._ The most unrepentant, incorrigible, irredeemable _fucking_ _slimeball_ it has ever been my misfortune to know. I should have left you to rot on the Throne.”

“Oh, _come off it._ These revolting displays of holier-than-thou performativity are growing tiresome. I don’t see you getting worked up on behalf of all the local fauna you've massacred and experimented on in the name of ‘science.’ You had no qualms about doing the same in your old life, either. But _surely_ in your infinite mercy you made sure that all those mice, birds, rabbits, and various amphibians were _nice and comfortable_ while you butchered them alive to poke at their still-pulsing organs, correct? Otherwise, that would make you one _hell_ of a hypocrite, pal.”

Wilson is staring at the ground, threatening to crush the little skull he’s gripping so tightly.

“What about that poor little puppy that was struck by an automobile? You could have just nursed it back to health. Had yourself a nice little companion. But you didn’t, did you.”

Wilson is silent.

“With your surgical skill you could have easily mended its bones. At least until you discovered its organs were damaged. But you weren’t thinking of that while you were slicing it open. I recall you gleefully informing me over the radio that the vertebral column is not yet ossified in an animal so young, so it can be easily separated to expose the spinal cord. And what did you do then? Cut the dorsal and ventral roots of the nerves at the point where they emerge and observe the results. Learned a lot about loss of sensation and movement in the limbs that day, hmm?”

Wilson’s head is bowed and his entire body is shaking. But it is impossible to tell whether it is from anger, humiliation, or both.

“A six-week-old puppy. A completely innocent little creature, just like that child. Suffering such indignity until the moment you snapped its neck with your bare hands. And you rather liked dogs, I thought. But it stopped being a dog when it became an experiment. I believe that’s how you said you pushed through? Don’t think of it as a puppy, think of it as an experiment. It was going to die anyway, right?”

 _“Enough,”_ Wilson hisses.

“Oh, but at least you applied anesthetic so it wasn’t in _too much_ pain. You’re not _that_ much of a sadistic little sociopath.”

_“ENOUGH.”_

“Cut a little too deep there, did I, pal? Well, now you know how your test subjects felt. Deny it all you want, but we're too sides of the same coin, you and I. The sooner you come to grips with that, the better.” He taps the ashes from his cigar and walks away to inspect the spoils his Puppets have unearthed. “A pity Charlie had to intervene. You would have made an excellent King.”

Wilson is too furious and mortified to speak. He wasn’t like Maxwell. This was a child. _A child._ A child wasn’t an animal, a child was a _child,_ a small living being that had parents and feelings and had died alone and scared in a strange world it had never asked to be brought into.

. . .just like. . .just like that puppy.

. . .but it was going to die, anyway, as he had told Maxwell. May as well have used it to further his own scientific pursuits. Waste not, want not, after all. And Wilson was nothing if not resourceful, something that had served him well. Even if it _had_ taken him until the five hundredth and forty-fourth try to get the proper formula for optimal survival down. But failure was just success in progress, as he always said.

. . .but what if this child had been destined for an early death as well, assuming he had never made contact—or contract—with Maxwell? Would Maxwell have been justified in just speeding up the inevitable? A twisted act of mercy? A pawn sacrifice in his little chess game?

. . .Maxwell’s own little scientific experiment?

No. It wasn’t the same. _Of course_ it wasn’t the same. Who was the scientist, here? Not Maxwell, that was for damn sure. So what did he know? Nothing, that’s what.

“You know nothing, William Carter.”

Maxwell stiffens, straightening to his full height. His Puppets stop what they’re doing and look at him, though their Master's back remains to Wilson. When he finally speaks, his voice is dangerously quiet.

“. . .what did you just say?”

“I _said_ , you know _nothing, **William Carter**._”

Maxwell whirls around, closing the distance between them in one long stride.

**“Y̶̥̽ò̶͎ũ̵̬ ̷̮́i̸͔n̴͖͝s̸̰̈o̷̮̿l̷̹͛e̴̮͌n̸̿͜t̴̡͆,̸̹̇ ̶̩̆p̷͙͆ḯ̷̻t̵̠̃i̵̢̇f̶̲̒ŭ̷̮l̸̝͊,̸̲͝ ̸͚͋i̶̻͂n̵͉͋s̵̥͒i̷̩̅ğ̶͜ṅ̶̙í̷̪f̶̻i̸̜͛c̴̢͋a̵̲̾n̴̨̈t̴̯͆ ̸̮̽ā̴͇n̵̤͗t̶̳̓!̵̯͛ ̸̙̔”**

A great Nightmare claw flays open Wilson’s cheek in what probably would have just been a regular slap if he hadn’t decided to press Maxwell’s berserk button. Or not “press” so much as “repeatedly mash his fist against.” It knocks him off his feet and sends the little skull bouncing into the open Grave. **_“You dare speak to me in that tone, call me by that name!? I should kill you where you stand—!”_**

If Wilson didn’t know any better—and _of course_ he did, he was a _scientist_ —he would have called what happened next divine intervention.

A bolt of lightning manifests from the aether and strikes the very Grave the skull had fallen into, the heat scorching both men's skin from how close in proximity they are to it. When the spots clear from their vision, the wounded earth vomits forth a wave of aggressive, hissing Spiders. And something else leaps out and latches on to Wilson’s face.

**“AUUUGHHHHH! GETITOFFGETITOFFGETITOFF—”**

Maxwell and his Puppets make quick work of the Spiders, and he approaches Wilson, Dark Sword drawn. “Hold still. I'll make a clean cut and put you _both_ out of your misery.”

The bilateral areas of Wilson’s temporal lobe are too busy trying to process the sounds the thing on his face is making to understand whatever Maxwell is yammering about. The hissing and screeching say **SPIDERSPIDERSPIDERSPIDER,** which then elevates to **SPIDEREWWEWWEWGROSSGROSSNONONO** the second it rushes his limbic system and chokeslams his amygdala.

But this Spider’s cries—something wasn’t right. The amplitude modulation rate was too erratic, the sound wave’s energy too highly concentrated and at too high a frequency. This was a distinctly _mammalian_ cry, and right in the range where adult hearing is most sensitive.

Something in his amygdala shifts, from straight fear to something else entirely. Then his insular cortex and inferior frontal gyrus join the party and slam everything in reverse.

**BABYBABYBABYBABYBABY**

**DISTRESSDISTRESSDISTRESSDISTRESS**

Testosterone levels dip, oxytocin levels spike.

**COMFORT NUTURE COMFORT NURTURE THE BABY IS IN DISTRESS COMFORT IT NUTURE IT DO IT NOW SCIENCE SAYS DO IT SCIENCE SAYS FEELINGS ARE HAPPENING LISTEN TO SCIENCE**

“Hold _still,_ I said!”

But Higgsbury is backing away from him, rubbing the thing’s back(?) and murmuring muffled succor. “Shhhh, shhhh, little one, it’s okay, Wilson’s got you, it’s alright. . .”

Maxwell lowers his Sword. “. . .What.”

The screeching, rough and turbulent and sandpaper on Maxwell’s own brain, starts to lessen. Wilson wasn’t sure what the magician’s own hormones had been telling him, but he could guess it was probably along the lines of

**S̸͔̲͚̬͉̙̩̓̎̈́͘Ḩ̴̨̨̦̠̤̪͖͈̭̟͓̱̩̮̑́̀͒̍͌Ű̶̢̪͎̘̲̻͔͙͈͍̈́͌̾͒̀̊̄T̴̲̤͈͓̪̮̅̌̏̃̿͝U̴̧̯̳̻̞̦̥̜̰̰̝͙͉͌̌̾̉̔̑̂̈́̎̒̕͜P̷̨̱͙̩̬̙̳̩̹̤̝̦̱̯̔̅̑̏̽̅͊̏̕͜͠S̵͓̎͊͑̍̂̊Ḩ̵̢̳̼͇̺͓̥̪̮̮̝̞̿̓̔̈́͌̓͘͜ͅƯ̶̢̹̝T̷̼͒̔͐̓͑͂̃̈́͐̍̎̾͝Ừ̵̛̘͔̙̫̺͈̃͊̈̒̎̑̚͝ͅP̵̠̟͚͎̣̮̩̠̲̳̱̯̆͆̊̇͋̿͝S̶̳̥̋͐̉̈́̈́̓̒̎H̶̡̠̠̫͍̟̞̗͓̞̑̔̆̇̏͌̍̂̋̂̕͝͝͠ͅƯ̸̳͔̰͉͌̎͑̋̍͋̽͗̊̾̔͘Ţ̶̧̛̤͓̝̘̺͙̪̘͓̥͍̤̊͒̄̿̾͊̚Ǘ̸̞̯̰͔̝͈̻̥̝̊̌͌̌̑̄̂̃̌̽͐͘͜͝͠P̷̨̤͉͎̹̝̞̬̮̝̠̱̩̆Ŝ̴͎̮̳̼̙͈̾̓͂͗͒̔̇͘͠Ḩ̴̨̪͖̦͙̯̔͜͠Ư̸̧̱̬͍͍̪̝̣͈̏̈́̋̈̉̂̌̅̎͝T̵̳̞̭̞̺̃̌Ṷ̸̤̥̻̬͇̯̫̟̮̀̾͐̈̈̃̒̽̅͌̒̎̈́̚P̷̢̡̡̘͈͍̖̤̯͔͈̗̓̄͆̿̓**

**K̶̡͕͗͐̅͊͒̅͂͑͗̊͂͜I̵̢̨̭̮̯̪̺̮̽̋͂L̸̢̻͇̫̪̺̱̮̼̘̺̻̺͍̑̈L̵̛͙̝͕̰̝̂̅͜͝I̴̡̛̛͍̙͉͈̘̳̦̟͋̏̏̉͗̀̇͝͝ͅT̶̢̖̻̭̽̑͒͝͝ͅK̷̪̗̭̩͚̾I̵͚̺̙̳͆̑̈́̈͆̀̽͗̿̚̕Ļ̵̛͉̘̘̹̬̮̄̿̃̃̓̚͝L̸̢͙̰̱̟̹̩̩̅͒̈̏͂͒̏̃̏̃̆Ĭ̷͇͚̝͑͋̓͊͒̊̽͝͝͠T̴̤̝͗̎̎̃̇̑͂̊̉̑̋̓̊̽K̶̡̟̼̝̖͉̮̰̭̮͚̟̻̃̆́̃̈́̋̐͋̎͛̊̕͘͜ͅĨ̴̹͛͝L̵̨̡̦̫̱̳̱͋̀̊̐̒̚͠͝L̸̨̟̦̖̪͎̘̙̈̽I̴͓͓̗̯̤͈̞̘̻̯̱̠͚̞̿̏̊̉̒̀̈́͊̀͆̀͠͝T̵̥͇͈̒ͅK̴̛͔͛̈́̃I̸͙͕̝̟̞̠̙͚̜͖͊͆͌͘L̸̯̺͖̥̗͚̖̗̪͌̔̎̿͋̎͂͋̈͂͋̑L̴̗̭̫̳͍͈̬͉͙̽̋̌͐͘̚I̴̧̛̠̖͇̮̠͇̯̜̭͓̜̋̂̓ͅͅŢ̵̡̨̙̗͎̫̻̻̠̥̟̪̼̔Ķ̷̛͙̠͈͙̝̟͔̗̤͍͒̾̌͜͝Ĭ̸̧̡̬̯͎͖̘̳̝̹͇̪́͑̽̇̆̑̅̃̽͋̿̚̚L̵̡̯̝͈̳̽́̌̉͋́͋̊͘̕Ļ̷̝̜̻͓͓̖̬͈̪͈̰̙̫̲̔͒̓͒̕͝Í̵̦͕̃̽͌̎͛͂̈̊͜͠͝Ţ̵̭̟̟̩̗̪͉̗̫̥̂̀̊͑̈́̂̚͘̚**

“There, there, little guy. It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. You’re just scared, aren’t you? More scared of me than I am of you. It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay.”

The monster child hugs the head of Maxwell’s insufferable companion with all eight of its legs, sniffling and hiccupping. “W-We w-were s-so scared, w-we want M-Mom a-and D-Dad—!”

“I know you do, little guy, I know you do. I can’t help you with that, but I can make it so you never have to be alone ever again. I know a sweet old lady who reads the best bedtime stories, a man who can make the tastiest foods you've ever eaten, and even a little girl about your age. Would you like to meet them?”

The child pulls back, looking at him with eight teary eyes. He nods.

“There’s a good lad.” Higgsbury fishes a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket—the one thing Maxwell agreed with him on was that a gentleman should never be without a pocket square, though his stance was fashion over function—and offers it to the child. “Here. Dry your eyes and blow your, uh. . .face.”

The child does so, then hands the handkerchief back to Higgsbury. “T-Thank you. . .”

“Of course. My name's Wilson, I'm a scientist. What’s your name?”

“Webber,” the boy sniffs. “I think my father was a scientist, but. . .I don’t remember.”

“Awww. Oh, hey, do you like toys? I found this, but I don’t know if you'll like it. . .”

Webber's eyes light right up when he sees the Ball and Cup. “M-May we have it?”

Wilson laughs in relief as he hands it off to him. “Absolutely! I've no time for fun and games, so _someone_ has to get some use out of it, right?” He shifts the spiderchild to one arm and slides his pack back on. “Now, Webber, do you have a favorite food? I'm pretty sure Warly can make anything as long as we have the ingredients. And if we don’t, I can get some! I know where lots of things are. I'm kind of an old hand at this survival thing, actually. I haven’t had time to explore this _whole_ place because I'm kind of new to this _particular_ world, and that’s kind of a long story. . .”

Maxwell watches in bewilderment as Higgsbury actually just. . .walks away, both the former King and their Grave-robbing mission completely gone from his mind as he babbles to the abomination in his arms. Where the hell was the twisted little fiend who carved up small animals in his spare time? Why was he acting so disgustingly _paternal?_

Maxwell thought himself a jaded and bitter old cynic who had seen just about everything his world had to offer, so he never thought he’d ever experience something like _disillusionment_ again. He also doesn’t think he’s ever been so flaccid in his life.

_“Eh-HEM.”_

Wilson turns. “Oh, you’re still here? Webber and I are heading back, so.”

What cheek! What insolence! What impudence! What impertinence! “You've got a lot of nerve, pal,” Maxwell starts, but he is still too blindsided by this strange new personality shift to formulate any other sort of response.

“Is that all?”

Maxwell can only sputter uselessly.

“Right, I'm off, then.”

Higgsbury then continues on his merry way. “Now, what did you say you liked to eat?”

“Um. . .I like Ice Cream. . .”

“Ah! We should have plenty of ingredients for that! But I'll gather some more Ice, just in case.”

“Mister. . .do you know your face is bleeding? And who was that man?”

“Oh, this is nothing, I've had worse. And that was nobody important, don’t worry.”

 _Nobody important._ If Maxwell hadn’t been seeing red before, he sure as hell was now. He storms after them.

They walk through the Evergreen Forests and into the Grasslands. Maxwell watches the scientist’s back as he stalks behind him, keeping his distance. The temptation to run them both through with the Dark Sword still in his hand was too great to get any closer.

“Mr. Wilson,” Maxwell hears the monster child hiss in what he believes is a surreptitious whisper as he stares over Higgsbury’s shoulder at him, “that man is following us.”

“Just ignore him, Webber. You know, I think you’ll be fast friends with Wendy. She’s shy and a little morbid, but very sweet. Her sister, uh, only talks to her, though, so having a conversation with her might be slow going at first. But Abigail’s a little spitfire, you'll love her.”

How did Higgsbury know anything about the girl? Or the ghost, for that matter? He'd rarely seen them interact. And the girl never said anything of substance beyond waxing poetic about the futility of existence, which, well. . .Maxwell didn’t mind too much, honestly. He found her nihilism strangely refreshing. They’d probably get on famously if he didn’t feel like he was overstepping some sort of boundary just by being near her. It was bad enough that he felt like a dirty old man on principle, but coupled with the way she often just. . . _stared_ at him only made him feel further vexed. Perhaps he deserved such scrutiny after observing others for so long.

There was something somewhat familiar about her, too, though he can’t put his finger on it. He'd felt this strange sensation when she’d given him her Flower to hold—to judge the extent of his magical expertise for herself, he suspected—and he hadn’t been able to shake that nagging feeling ever since.

“—can build you a Tent, and you’ll have a bedroll to sleep on—oh, do you like doggies? We have a monster that’s _kind_ of like a dog. He’s fluffy and loyal you can store items in him, even! He sleeps in my Tent, but I can let him stay in yours so you don’t get lonely. His name is Otto von Chesterfield, Esq., and he is a good boy. The goodest boy! I named him. He slobbers a lot but he loves when you throw his Eyebone and, uh. . .” Higgsbury looks over when he sees Maxwell has (angrily) fallen into step beside him. “Yes?”

“I was getting tired of eight little eyes boring into me."

“Heh. Maybe he’s—hey, no smoking in front of the kiddo! You'll set a bad example! And do you know how toxic secondhand smoke is!?”

“Don’t push your luck, _pal._ You’re on thin ice as it is.”

**_Pal._ **

_Smoke._

_Cigar._

**_Pal._ **

_Evil._

_Smoke._

_Mean._

_Cigar._

**_Pal._ **

**_Say, pal. . ._ **

The abomination in Higgsbury’s arms suddenly starts _screeching._

“Whoa, Webber—!”

“What the devil—!?”

Inhuman shrieks pierce the eardrums as well as the air. He hisses, he claws at Higgsbury’s waistcoat as if trying to burrow into it, he brandishes his Ball and Cup like a weapon in hopes that it'll drive Maxwell back. _“NOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOO! GET AWAY! **GET AWAY!** ”_

Wilson jogs ahead and turns back around to face Maxwell once he’s put some distance between them. “Webber, hey, hey! It’s okay! It’s okay! He won’t hurt you!”

_“WE REMEMBER! WE REMEMBER NOW!”_

Wilson’s heart drops like a stone as he clutches the child protectively against his chest. Maxwell simply folds his arms and sucks on his cigar, retrohaling in his irritation. Wilson isn’t sure if he’s simply decided that now was the opportune moment to enhance his experience by bathing his olfactory nerves in whatever the hell that thing was supposed to taste like, or if he was going out of his way to snort smoke out of his nostrils like an angry bull in an attempt to look extra-intimidating, but either way the scientist _did not_ appreciate it.

 _“W-We r-remember,”_ the child wails, sobbing inconsolably. _“T-The m-m-mean m-man who tricked u-us! H-He s-said h-h-he w-would h-help u-us b-but he DIDN’T!”_ Six little legs tug his waistcoat, and eight little eyes brimming anew with tears demand answers. _“W-Why i-is he h-here, M-Mr. W-Wilson!? W-WHY I-IS HE HERE!?”_

Wilson can feel his own eyes starting to well. Stupid science with its stupid chemical reactions kicking caregiving behaviors he didn’t even know he had into high gear. How could science betray him like that? But he swallows his tears along with the lump in his throat and hugs the furry little creature tightly. He was _not_ going to cry, damn it, _especially_ in front of Maxwell.

“He's stuck here, like the rest of us,” Wilson explains, gently bouncing the monster child like an infant. He isn't sure. . .why, exactly, but he was going to trust in science despite its heinous betrayal and let it guide his instincts. He just couldn’t stay mad at science. “It’s not fair, I know, but nothing really is. Especially in this world. We just have to do the best we can. But I won’t let him turn a single chitinous fiber on your head, I can promise you that.”

Maxwell scoffs derisively in a puff of smoke.

“. . .and he’s not all bad, I promise.”

Oh, _now_ Higgsbury had his attention. _This should be good. Go on, pal. Tell the little wretch I was going to use as decoration how “not all bad" I am._

“He has family, too. Did you know that? Two little nieces.”

The cigar falls from Maxwell’s mouth. How. . .how much had Ṱ̵̢̢̡̬̩̘͇̜̖̜̹̭͉̄̒͆͐͌̈́̒͌̄̎̉͝ͅh̸̻̬̖̬͗̓͊̒̇͠ë̷̥́͠ỹ̸̢̬̣̯͔͈̓̇̀̂͂̈́̈̎͘ told him? It was bad enough Higgsbury knew his real name. . .

. . .and what did he mean, “little?” They’d have to be in their twenties, by now.

_Unless._

“. . .No. . .it can’t be.”

“Yes,” Higgsbury says, though Maxwell isn’t sure to whom he's speaking, as he’s still looking down at the child he’s trying to soothe. “You'll get to meet them soon. The girls I was telling you about. Wendy and Abigail _Carter._ ”

_He brought me here, but. . .I feel a strange kinship with him._

He hadn’t thought anything of what he’d overheard her tell Higgsbury when she’d arrived through their Portal. . .or rather, the Floral Postern. But now. . .

He should be furious. He should disembowel them both, right here, right now, and reclaim _both_ their skulls for use as ornaments.

But the Sword he’d been gripping so tightly this entire time just drops from his hand.

“Look at him. _Really_ look at him.” Higgsbury’s voice is somehow gentle and icy, disgusted and sympathetic, all at once. “Does that look like an evil villain to you? Because that looks like a broken, powerless old man to me.”

Maxwell says nothing. He’s too stunned to speak, too stunned to feel anything beyond. . .nothing. His chest felt empty, like it contained just. . .

_Just dust. And the Void. And T̸̢̡̲̱̥͕͍̲̬̿͐͛̌̈́h̴͔͍̝͍̱͍͒̉̓̄͛̈́͝ẹ̸̛͉̗̓͐̀̿̈́̇͌̒̓ͅm̷̡͍̟̙̟̲͕̹̣̖̲̯̋̓̎̊̍̂͊͐̍͘͜͠͝._

For someone so hapless, so temperamental, so high-strung, so passive for all his posturing and overconfidence and moral grandstanding, he could be calculating when he wanted to be. So insidious in his manipulation. One would think he was just a bumbling dolt, a meek and biddable little pawn, until he'd sever an artery with such speed and precision that there would be nothing to wipe from the blade when he retracted it. Dead before one could even realize what had happened.

He thinks he was beginning to understand Ṱ̸͉̳̱̮̗̜͕̦̙̤͓͙̳͒̈́h̸͔͚͕̹̞̪̺̜̭̓͛̿̀̾̊̒̑̐̓̏̚e̷̡̨̡̛̳͓̘̻̤̳̱̟͚̖͛͊̈́̔̍̓̌̊̾̿̌͘͘i̷̡̛̲͙̮̜͔̼͗̓̂̊̇̈́̓̈́͘͠͠ř̴͉͍͓̪̝̫̆̏ fascination with Higgsbury, now.

He thinks he was beginning to understand his _own_ fascination with Higgsbury, now.

How could someone be so softhearted and yet so callous? So genuine and so duplicitous? So irrational and still so coldly logical? So pliable but still so steadfast in his beliefs, even if they were in direct opposition with each other? The man was a walking contradiction.

Had he. . .always been like this? Or had the Throne. . .?

Webber seems just as stunned by Maxwell’s transformation, as well as Wilson’s. His cries have since subsided—but now Nice Wilson is back to wipe his tears. “So don’t worry, okay, little guy? Let’s go back to camp and get you sorted.”

□■□■□■□■

Webber sits by the fire in front of a bowl of Ice Cream, Chester by his side, and playing with his Ball and Cup. Wilson has since set up his lodgings and is now explaining the situation to the only other adults here thus far, Wolfgang, Warly, Willow, and Wickerbottom.

“It’s really wigging me out seeing you act like an actual adult, not gonna lie.”

“What's that supposed to mean? I _am_ an adult! A grown man! A thirty, uh. . .something, year-old man!”

“Wait, you’re in your thirties? Holy crap, you’re old.”

“. . .you’re less than ten years younger than me.”

“Uh, yeah. So not old. Like _you_.”

Wilson folds his arms and scowls. “I'm not _old._ And you don’t exactly act your age, either.”

“Yeah, because I'm _young._ ”

Wickerbottom pinches the bridge of her nose. “If you two are _quite_ finished. You said you and Maxwell found the boy in the Graveyard, Mr. Higgsbury?”

“Well, sort of. See, I had found this skull, and—”

“How are you coping, Maxwell?”

Maxwell looks up from the Codex, which he had been simply staring at in either an attempt to look busy or to occupy his mind. He wasn’t sure which it was, but clearly neither were working.

“. . .Pardon?”

The girl—Wendy—just stares at him with those large, blank eyes. And he can only stare back just as vacantly.

“I asked how you were faring this day.”

“Ah.”

What did she see when she looked at him? Could she see past the black eyes and into the black soul? It certainly felt like it. But he'd never know, as that impassive expression wasn’t about to tell him anything.

. . .did she see Jack when she looked at him?

“I'm. . .fine. And you?”

“Also fine.”

“That’s. . .good.”

“Yes.”

Well, that had been a productive conversation.

Wendy sits next to him, holding Abigail’s Flower reverently in her hands.

“Do you. . .practice magic?”

“I’ve dabbled in spiritualism. But you know that part.”

He did. Much as he had done with Higgsbury, it was after yet another failed séance that he had contacted her.

“The music I heard in my dreams. . .the same song repeating over again. . .was that you?”

“You could _hear_ that infernal. . .?” She must be more in tune with the supernatural than he'd thought. No one else had mentioned being able to hear it. “Yes, that was me.”

“. . .I _thought_ it seemed rather peculiar for Abigail to use ragtime as a means of communication.”

“That was all that played in the Throne Room. The soundtrack of my reign, I suppose. I. . .was not intentionally trying to torture you with it.”

“Dreadful music, ragtime.”

“I wholeheartedly agree.”

This was progress. Perhaps the longest conversation they’d had to date.

“. . .that Flower is quite the enchantment. I sense Fuel, but also a sort of white magic I cannot place.” He frowns. “Strange. I thought I was privy to all the secrets of this world.”

“Thinking you know everything is kind of a theme with you.”

Higgsbury is standing before them now, stooping slightly, one hand in his pocket as he studies Abigail’s Flower.

“Greetings, Mr. Pot. I'd like to introduce you to my friend, Mr. Kettle. Then perhaps you’d like to become reacquainted with Mr. Sword, and he can give you some stripes to match your other cheek.”

“Mr. Wilson, does Mr. Maxwell only have object friends because he has no people friends?”

Both Higgsbury, the pyromaniac, and the strongman start laughing like idiots. The chef and the old librarian try to be at least a little more subtle and smother their amusement. Maxwell rubs his temples.

“Did you need something?”

“Yes, actually,” Higgsbury continues upon recovery, “I was curious about the Flower.”

“No, you cannot experiment on it,” Wendy tells him evenly.

“Awww, that’s no fun! But no, I know you summon Abigail with it, but that’s all. I've just been dying to find out how it works.”

“Funny you should use that turn of phrase, because the summon requires a blood sacrifice.”

“Ha!” Higgsbury grins. “What a little scamp she is, that Abigail. May I?”

Wendy and Maxwell just stare at the scientist with the exact same expression of dubiety. The resemblance is uncanny, now that Wilson sees them in juxtaposition. But eventually, Wendy hands over the Flower.

“Oh, wow,” the scientist murmurs appreciatively, cupping it in his hands as delicately as if it were made of glass. Its petals stir as if caressed by the gentlest breeze, and its anemic pink petals are starting to darken with the promise of fresh blood. “It’s hauntingly beautiful. But it also hurts my soul to look at and is kind of giving me the creeps.”

Before either Wendy or Maxwell can stop him, he grabs the Dark Sword that had been sitting at the latter’s side, testing the point with a finger. “Stars, that’s really sharp! It should be perfect, then.” He takes several steps back and carefully sets Abigail’s Flower on the ground.

“Wait, Wilson! What the heck are you doing!?”

“Just a teensy-tiny little science experiment, Willow.” He holds his left hand out over the Flower, the Shadow blade poised over his open palm. “Abigail just needs a little more blood before she’ll come out to play, right? I'd like to introduce her to Webber.”

“It requires not just blood, but a life,” Wendy explains. “Introductions can wait, I will just catch some Butterflies tomorrow morning— _wait, what are you—!?_ ”

“Hm?” Wilson has the Sword raised to his throat. “You said it needed a life. Maxwell, this doesn’t count towards your running tally, by the way.”

_“Higgsbury—!”_

_“WILSON—!”_

_“Crazy science man—!”_

_“Mr. Higgsbury—!”_

_“Monsieur Wilson—!”_

_“Mr. Wilson—!”_

Wendy has jumped to her feet, displaying the most emotion any of the Survivors had seen from her. _“Have you gone mad, scientist!?”_

Wilson actually laughs. “You sound so much like your uncle it’s spooky.”

Before anyone can react, Higgsbury makes one quick slice at the side of his throat. He immediately sinks to his knees, the life leaving his eyes almost as quickly as blood spurts from his carotid artery.

**_“WILSON!”_ **

**_“MR. WILSON!”_ **

Unconsciousness claims him moments before Death does, the blood pooling from beneath his body soaking into both the soil and Abigail’s Flower. Its petals turn a deep crimson and it rises several feet from the ground, haloed in pure, white light. Then from the blooming Flower, the soft, glowing specter of Abigail takes form.

But the first thing she sees is Wilson’s dead body slumped forward on the ground. She flits around in what appears to be a panic, giving a great ghostly wail.

Then a strange humming can be heard.

The Life Giving Amulet Wilson had apparently been wearing around his neck, kept covertly tucked beneath his shirt, rises into the air, taking the scientist’s limp body with it. It glows red, several beams of light shooting out through growing cracks in the Gem before it shatters completely. Wilson is back on his feet with a wheeze.

“Whew! That never gets any less unpleasant. Not the worst way to die, though, if you do it correctly.” He holds his arms out to either side, hands raised as if signaling everyone to stop. “NOBODY ATTEMPT THAT, BY THE WAY. I’M A PROFESSIONAL.”

 _“A professional idiot!”_ Maxwell reaches him first, grabbing him by the collar. _“What the hell were you thinking!? Have you gone completely insane!?”_

“I dunno, probably. We _were_ looting Graves earlier, so.”

Maxwell stops, blinking at him in disbelief. They _had_ been looting Graves earlier. Something that wasn’t an issue for Maxwell, as his fractured mind could heal on its own thanks to his dapperness. To his knowledge, though, no one else possessed his sanity-regeneration ability. This was something he’d perfected in his time on the Throne—he doubts he would have endured the twisted machinations of T̸̢̡̲̱̥͕͍̲̬̿͐͛̌̈́h̴͔͍̝͍̱͍͒̉̓̄͛̈́͝ẹ̸̛͉̗̓͐̀̿̈́̇͌̒̓ͅm̷̡͍̟̙̟̲͕̹̣̖̲̯̋̓̎̊̍̂͊͐̍͘͜͠͝ for as long as he had without developing that kind of mental fortitude. Or the ability to split his mind into pieces to weather the years of psychological torture he had been subjected to. Perhaps irreparably damaging his psyche and walling off the unpleasantness wasn’t the healthiest of coping mechanisms, but it had proven effective. And it enabled him to simultaneously control clones of himself while still maintaining complete control of his own higher cognitive functions. He, a Shadow Digger, and a Shadow Duelist could all act independently of another without much difficulty on his part. Maxwell was a multitasker _par excellence._

But the mad scientist remained quite mad. And it explained his strange and puzzling shifts in personality throughout the day.

“. . .You know, I never realized until now, but has anyone ever told you your big stupid lips look really. . .inviting?”

Maxwell shoves Higgsbury back in. . .disgust? Incredulousness? Confusion? Something else that was due to be purged deep within the recesses of his mind? “You _are_ insane.”

The rest of the camp immediately starts squabbling amongst themselves. . .except for Wendy, who sits in stunned—or perhaps contemplative—silence.

“Scientist.”

Everyone stops to look at her. Abigail ceases trying to attack Wilson, though Webber and Willow still hold tufts of his hair in their fists.

“Me? Err, yes?”

“How did you know my father had a brother.”

Everyone looks at Wilson, now.

“. . .I was King, albeit briefly. Ṱ̵̢̢̡̬̩̘͇̜̖̜̹̭͉̄̒͆͐͌̈́̒͌̄̎̉͝ͅh̸̻̬̖̬͗̓͊̒̇͠ë̷̥́͠ỹ̸̢̬̣̯͔͈̓̇̀̂͂̈́̈̎͘ filled me in on certain things when I took over. Not that I knew I was taking over Maxwell's job when I freed him. Thanks again for that, _old pal._ It was a deeply scarring experience from which I may never completely recover.”

“. . .Better you than me.”

“. . .You. . .” Wendy tries again. “You said I sounded like him. Did you. . .meet him, somehow?”

“I did. You did, too. You've been sitting beside him this whole time.”

“. . .What?”

“. . .oOoOOo?”

“WHAT.”

“What!?”

“What!?”

_“Quoi!?”_

“Oh, right! Mr. Wilson said Mr. Maxwell had two nieces! Hi, Wendy! Hi, Abigail! My name’s Webber. You seem too nice to be related.”

Everyone looks at Maxwell.

Maxwell refuses to look at anyone.

“. . .But my uncle. . .his name was. . .”

“‘Maxwell' is not his real name,” Wilson interrupts. “It’s a stage name he took a long time ago.”

Wendy stands. Abigail drifts silently to her side.

“. . .I would. . .like to speak with you privately, Maxwell.”

“. . .Alright.”

Wilson hands Wendy back her Flower. “I thought you had a right to know,” he whispers. “Good luck.”

She gazes at him with her usual completely incomprehensible expression before nodding once and walking off with Maxwell.

“I don’t know if you should've done that, Wilson. Maxwell's gonna be mad pissed now.”

“Saying she sounded like him was an accident. I just made an executive decision to commit to it. Can you let go of my hair now?”

Willow gives it a hard yank. “No. I'm still mad at you, jerk. You made the kid cry!”

“Y-You’re so mean, Mr. Wilson! We w-were worried!”

“I'm sor—OW! OW, that hurts, quit it! I'm sorry, I said! I just wanted—OW OW OW, STOP!”

“What I would like to know,” Wickerbottom says finally, her eyes on uncle and niece(s), “is if Maxwell knew of their shared lineage prior to bringing Wendy and her deceased twin into this godforsaken place.”

“I don’t—OW!—think so. He seemed surprised when I told hi—OW!” Wickerbottom clearly wasn’t about to help him, and Wolfgang was too afraid to get close to the spiderchild, so he begs the chef instead. “ _Warly! S'il vous plaît, arrêtez ça!_ ”

“You brought this on yourself, _mon bon monsieur_. But I suppose, since you asked so nicely.” Warly gently but firmly pries Willow's hands open. “Come now, _Mademoiselle_ Willow, let us cease this silliness. You too, _petit monsieur._ ” He lifts the hissing Webber from Wilson’s shoulders. “Let's all calm down with a nice bowl of soup, yes?”

□■□■□■□■

“Urrrgh,” Wilson groans, holding his head. “I never want to eat another Cooked Green Cap again. I thought I was done with those after having to travel through all those Obelisks.”

“We had to make sure you were not about to pull any more dangerous stunts in your compromised condition, Mr. Higgsbury.”

“I do all my best experiments in that state, though.”

“Yes, and that is _exactly_ why you needed to be pulled from it. By force, if need be.”

“Right, that reminds me. Thank you for prying my jaws open while Warly shoved mushrooms down my throat, Wolfgang.”

“Wolfgang could not refuse strong brainlady, tiny egghead man.” The strongman wilts under Wilson’s glare, looking sheepish. “But am sorry.”

“I know you’re in a mood, but don’t you think that poor kid's suffered enough without watching the guy who saved him slit his own throat? He's probably going to have nightmares for weeks, you jerk.”

Wilson sinks. “You’re right, Willow. I'm sorry, Webber.”

“We're still mad at you,” Webber huffs through his _second_ bowl of Ice Cream. “But only a little bit.”

“Did it hurt?” Wendy asks, nibbling on her Banana Pop. Bless Warly for being so kind as to placate the kids with their favorite treats. He was the most recent addition, and everyone had taken to him almost immediately for both his willingness to cook and his gentle nature. Wilson really wanted to do something nice for him at some point. Maybe a new cooking invention. . . “You seemed to be in more pain from Willow and Webber ganging up on you than you did from taking your life in such a gruesome fashion. I must admit, I was. . .kind of impressed.”

“Heh, I thought you’d, uh,” Wilson pauses, “‘enjoy' is not the word I'm looking for. ‘Appreciate,’ perhaps? But, ah. . .” He tilts his head to expose his neck and traces his carotid artery with a finger. “You need only make a slight incision along the artery to bleed out in seconds. The trick is to do it properly. Sever the part closest to the spine and you cut off blood to the brain and pass out. Sever the part along the throat and you pass out from the rapid blood loss. With a sharp enough cutting implement, it feels like a small pinch. Then you feel really sleepy and just flop over, which I assume I did. Kind of nice, compared to say—" He fixes Maxwell with a glare, “—getting devoured by Hounds or freezing to death.”

Maxwell clicks his tongue derisively, but offers no other response. He still refuses to look at him.

“And here I had erroneously chalked up the effectiveness of your little stunt to sheer dumb luck. But it seems you may know a thing or two after all, scientist!”

Wilson sulks. “Gee, thanks, Ms. Wickerbottom.”

“Now, now, there’s no need for pouting. With your medical knowledge, our rate of survival should only hope to increase exponentially! How would you like to take on a position as our camp medic?”

“. . .I mean no disrespect, but you know that _I'm_ the one who got here first, right? And that _I_ built this camp? Besides, I'm a _scientist,_ not a doctor.”

“And yet your explanation of the carotid artery is indicative of a professional medical background. Further, is not medical science still a science?”

“I. . .suppose. . .”

“Then become our resident medical specialist. You _are_ a _professional,_ aren’t you?”

“I mean. . .I. . .” But he can’t refuse in the face of Wickerbottom’s hopeful expression. “. . .oh, alright, _fine._ ”

“Very good. I appreciate your commitment to group survival, my boy.”

“No offense, Ms. Wickerbottom,” Willow cuts in, “but I'm not sure how much I trust a quack with questionable training to stitch us all up. I mean, it beats dying, I guess, but I think I'd just rather stick to Healing Salves and Meat Effigies. Seems safer.”

“. . .Thanks, Willow. Your confidence in me is a soothing balm in these trying times.”

“For what it’s worth, I can attest to the veracity of his skill.”

Everyone stops to look at Maxwell.

“In the time we've spent together, I can safely say he’s quite the little surgeon. Quick with a needle and thread, I might add.”

He walks over and grabs Wilson by wrist, holding up his left hand for all to see. He pulls down the elastic material of the thumb gloves that protect his palms (as well as his arms, presumably from chemicals), and exposes his old knife wound. “Happened when he built the first Door. Sewed it up himself like it was nothing. Without anesthetic, to boot. You can see how well the stitches held just by looking at the scar tissue.”

What fresh devilry was this? Why was Maxwell suddenly defending him? There had to be a catch. _Had_ to be. Maybe he was doing this because Wilson _really_ didn’t want to be known as anything but a scientist? As revenge for letting his relationship to Wendy and Abigail slip?

“But he’s also quite dangerous with any edged weapon, as you saw for yourself. Do you think he'd hesitate to turn a blade on another’s throat, especially for one of his deranged experiments? ‘Do no harm' applies to doctors, _actual_ doctors, not unstable ‘scientists.’”

 _Ah, there_ it was. Worse yet, he was using that soft, smooth, persuasive voice, the one Wilson recognized as the one he favored when speaking over the radio. He had used it to spur Wilson on to create the Door, and likely had used to strike deals which each of the Survivors, as well. And given that they were all trapped here together, the use of that voice had clearly worked to some extent. If it wasn’t for Wilson’s growing anger, his head would probably start feeling a little fuzzy by now. Like being. . .under a spell.

He was trying to sow doubt in their minds, just as he had done to Wilson in the Graveyard.

But Wickerbottom, thank the stars, wasn’t falling for it, the crafty old bat. “Still up to your old tricks, are you, Maxwell? I am putting my trust in Mr. Higgsbury on this one. Need I remind you that you are being permitted to stay here in the first place because Mr. Higgsbury made such an impassioned plea on your behalf?”

Maxwell’s smirk fades, and Wilson blushes. _I wouldn’t have called it an “impassioned plea,” exactly. . ._

“Hmph.” Maxwell releases Wilson and starts to walk away, but pauses momentarily. “Do ask him about some of his living experiments sometime. I'm sure you'll find it quite. . .illuminating.”

Wilson wakes to the sound of pouring rain with a pounding headache and in just as foul a mood as he went to sleep in.

“‘Not the most useful invention, is it?’ ‘I could also just look up to learn the same thing.’ Eat _shit,_ you old fraud.” He roughly pulls on his trousers and buttons his shirt. “And what was that dream? Why am I remembering that all of a sudden? That had to be. . .what, Fall? Feels like an eternity ago.” He rubs his temples. “The last few _days_ feels like an eternity ago.”

_The music I heard in my dreams. . .the same song repeating over again. . .was that you?_

_You could hear that infernal. . .? Yes, that was me._

“Ah, right, the power of the Throne. Having fun with my dreams again, Charlie? Oh, you saucy little minx. Thanks for the reminder about what Maxwell is _really_ like. I'd almost forgotten.”

Wilson tugs on his waistcoat. After a moment’s hesitation, he carefully takes out the photograph in its pocket and slips it into his desk for safekeeping. “Don’t want to get this wet. Not for you, though, understand? For the girls. I couldn’t care less about you.”

It’s not like Maxwell would be able to hear him muttering to himself, but he feels the need to justify himself to the silence, anyway. “I _don’t_ care. I _don’t._ ”

He can almost see Maxwell's lanky frame leaning in the entryway of his tent, hear the strike of a match and a throaty chuckle. _I believe you, pal. Spending the last five minutes seething about how little you care really convinced me._

“Well, good. We're on the same page, then.” He goes rooting through his personal Ice Box. “Why do I have so many damn Green Caps in here? They’re completely worthless. I should give them to Warly.”

_I never want to eat another Cooked Green Cap again. I thought I was done with those after having to travel through all those Obelisks._

_We had to make sure you were not about to pull any more dangerous stunts in your compromised condition, Mr. Higgsbury._

_I do all my best experiments in that state, though._

“. . .But on second thought. . .”

Cooked, Green Caps were good for the mind, but raw. . .

“Sanity is a small price to pay for science. And there is a _lot_ of science I want to do today.” He pops one into his mouth whole.

Immediately, his vision wavers. The world looks a bit like an over-exposed photograph, too bright in some places and too dark in others. But he can feel the Knowledge inside of him stirring to life, turning the creaking gears of his sleep-fogged, emotion-rattled brain. Shaking off all the rust.

Yes, yes, this was _very good. Very good indeed._

“You know, my head actually feels a little clearer. How curious.”

He grabs his Eyebrella and sets it on his head. “Don’t want my hair to get all wet and poofy.”

He's actually a little glad Wickerbottom had talked him into moving his Tent. He had more place to work, and he could easily slip in and out of the back of the camp as he pleased. And Maxwell kept odd hours as well, so he didn’t have to worry about disturbing him. . .

He stops short. Wait, why would that even matter? It didn’t. _It didn’t. **IT DIDN’T.**_

_. . .You know, I never realized until now, but has anyone ever told you your big stupid lips look really. . .inviting?_

Wilson snarls to himself and storms back into his Tent. He stuffs a bunch of Green Caps into his Piggyback and one more into his mouth before leaving a second time.

“Alright. Thinking is for _science only._ Starting _now._ ”

□■□■□■□■

“Maxwell? It’s Willow. Are you awake?”

She waits patiently for a response, balancing two Butter Muffins on the Codex Umbra as she shifts to adjust her Umbrella.

“You didn’t show for breakfast, so I brought you something.”

No response. She sighs.

“You’re gonna make me do the thing, aren’t you.”

Still nothing.

“Alright, magic man. You've forced my hand.”

She clears her throat.

_“Maaaaaaaaaxweeeeelllllll. Maxwellllllly-yelllllll.”_

Not a peep. She bounces in place.

“Max. Well. Max. Well. Max. Well. Max. Well. Max! Well! Max! Well! MaxwellMaxwellMaxwellMaxwellMaxwellMaxwellMaxwellMaxwellMaxwellMaxwellMaxwellMaxwellMaxwell itisreally wetouthere letmein MaxwellMaxwellMaxwellMaxwellMaxwellMaxwell—”

The Tent flap finally parts. Maxwell appears, soaked to the bone and with a cigar in his mouth.

“That’s one way to try to quit smoking.” She holds out the Codex with the two Muffins on top. “Can I come in? I got a special delivery for His Majesty like the good little pawn I am.”

Maxwell snorts and turns away. But he holds the flap open for her.

“Oooooooh. Maxwell’s Tent. Look at all the creepy junk you got in here. Very fitting. Surprised you don’t keep a statue of yourself in here, too. Probably wouldn’t fit, though.” She extends the items in her hands to him. “Here. So you don’t starve.”

“. . .Thank you,” he says finally, his voice thick and hoarse. He sets down the Codex and Muffins on the endtable near his chair, but doesn’t touch them otherwise. Willow closes her Umbrella and moves his desk chair to take a seat across from him.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“. . .Not particularly.”

“Wanna light?”

“. . .I wouldn’t turn one down.”

She flicks up the hammer arm on her Lighter and holds the ignited flame to the end of his cigar. “You look like you've spent all night chain-smoking, then had a piss and a cigar for breakfast.”

“Crude, but not inaccurate.”

“Any particular reason you decided to wash your suit without taking it off first? I kinda figured it was dry-clean only. Unless you really _are_ trying to cut down on smoking by sitting out in the rain while you do it.”

Maxwell raises his shoulders in a brief, noncommittal shrug.

“Wilson always says that sometimes the best way to feel better is to make yourself feel worse. At first I thought it was kinda dumb, but it made sense the more I thought about it.

. . .what he said really messed you up, huh.”

Maxwell exhales smoke through his nose.

“You gave me your book to burn. According to Wickerbottom, you kind of need it to live. Something about being on the Throne for so long. So. . .yeah.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Your eyes are all puffy. Have you been crying?”

“I don’t cry.”

“Okay, _that_ I believe.”

Maxwell snorts, eager to change the subject. “How's your head?”

“Better. How’s your heart?”

“I don’t have a heart.”

“And that I _don’t_ believe. It’s shriveled and it’s black, but it’s in there. And I think Wilson broke it. And I think we need to talk about it.”

Maxwell rubs one of his temples. “Must we?”

“Yes. Because I really think this is all part of Charlie’s plan. And I'm not about to let that freaky darkness bitch fuck you up any more than she already has. You _or_ Wilson.”

“. . .Why?”

“Because. . .”

That was a pretty good question. Why, indeed.

“Because you’re one of us now, like it or not. And you’re important to my best friend, even if he is the biggest dope on the planet. And you’re important to Wendy, even if she doesn’t show it. And Abigail too, I think, but Wilson knows her better than I do. And maybe. . .well. . .you might be a teensy bit important to me, too.”

Maxwell sits up a little straighter, regarding her curiously. But he says nothing.

“There was no love in my old life. No warmth beyond fire. You gave me a second chance. A fresh start. I mean, parts of it really sucked, like a lot, and you were a huge dick about it, but. . .” She pulls Bernie from her pocket and holds him in her lap. “When I started yelling because I just wanted to annoy you, you always showed up. Like a little secret game we made up to pass the time. It’s actually a good memory that makes me chuckle when I think about it, in spite of everything.”

“. . .your yelling was slightly less annoying than ragtime, but only just.”

“Heh. I remember one time Wilson started humming it without realizing it and you whapped him over the head with one of Wickerbottom’s books. The look on both your faces, holy crap. I almost peed myself.”

Maxwell looks away, but only in an attempt to hide the faintest hint of a smile.

“It was stuff like that that made me realize. . .I didn’t _have_ any good memories before I came here. The circumstances were shitty and you were still a huge dick, but. . .but I think even if I was stuck here forever, it wouldn’t be so bad. As long as I had you guys.”

Maxwell's expression softens, just a little. “You might want to have Higgsbury take another look at that head wound.”

“Har har. I'm being serious.”

“. . .I know you are.”

They both sit in silence for a moment.

“. . .I know Wilson. He’s not lashing out because he’s mad at you. He's lashing out because he’s upset. Because you’re really important to him, even if your kisses are literally driving him crazy. And I think he wants to kiss you really, _really_ bad. And do a _lot_ more than that. But he’s afraid and he doesn’t know what to do. So he does what he always did before he even came here—he pushes everyone away. Because you can’t get hurt if nobody’s around to hurt you. And I think you know better than all of us that that’s not how that works. So just hang tight and I'll try talking some sense into him, okay?

And until we figure out all this Shadow-puking business, for the love of God, _do not let Wilson suck your dick._ ”

Maxwell holds his face in his hand.

“Nice try, but I know you’re smiling.”

“Get out.” But there’s no rancor in his voice. “Go harass someone else.”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm goin'. Get out of those wet clothes before you catch pneumonia. If you croak before you can teach me that magic trick you promised, I'm gonna be pissed.”

“Leave.”

“You got it, boss.” She pauses at the flap. “You can probably suck _his_ dick, though. That should be safe. Plus you've got the most dick-sucking-est lips I've ever seen.”

“ _Goodbye,_ Ms. Willow.”

He waits until she’s gone before adding quietly, “. . .and thank you.”

□■□■□■□■

Sometime during the afternoon, Maxwell is pulled from his thoughts by the sound of Cuban heels on Cobblestone and. . .demented giggling.

And hissing.

“Come here, little Spider. We're going to do a little experiment. Do you like science? Because _I_ like science. Hey, now, no biting.”

The Spider screeches and hisses, and there’s a sudden dull _thud_ and sickening squelch.

**“I̵̤̟͖̾̿ ̸̠̺̆s̴͍̗̎a̷̰̪̓͜i̵͚̠̒͊d̷̮͕͈͌,̵͎̮ ̶̭̉̚n̶͚̒ơ̶̪̎̋ ̸͊͝ͅb̷͓̻̱̈́͗i̶̝̔ť̷̠͕͋͠i̸̗̼̅̑ň̵̮̘̫g̶͇̻͔͗̃͠.̴̲̄̈̊”**

It never really occurred to Maxwell until now that the Spiders could probably process pain despite their simple biological makeup and low intelligence, albeit on a very base level. But the next weak hiss sounded quite pained.

“Let’s just get you all strapped in nice and snug. Snug as a bug. _Heehee!_ ” That shrill, unearthly giggle sends a chill up Maxwell’s spine, and sets the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. “I mean, you _can’t_ be an arachnid, right? You only have six legs! _Six!_ How silly! _Heeheehee!_

 ** _D̵̰͌o̴̘͂d̴̼͠d̷̦̍e̷̼̒r̴̞i̴͕͒n̵̩̔ğ̴͜ ̸̨ò̴̳ḻ̸̽d̶̨̄ ̵̬̿f̴͖͝o̷͈̾o̵̘̐ľ̷̟ ̶̥c̶͚͝a̴̮͋n̶͖̋'̶̘̅t̷̩̅ ̷̹̚d̷͓̈ō̶̞ ̶̣a̶̖̾n̷̗̋y̷̮̌t̷̤͋ḥ̷̿i̵̡̇ń̴̰g̶̗͋ ̶̻̒ȓ̴̲ḭ̷̛g̸̲̅h̵̠̊t̷̪.̸̗͝_** ”

Maxwell winces. That stung a lot more than it should have.

“Mm. I really wish I had a scalpel. I could probably make one. Orrrrrrrr I could use this Razor. Yes, let’s do that. Now hold still. . .”

The Spider shrieks in. . .agony? It’s impossible to tell. But the sound makes Maxwell’s blood run cold. It sounded too much like. . .like. . .

_NOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOO! GET AWAY! **GET AWAY!**_

Maxwell peers out of the flap of his Tent. Surely the sound would trip something in Higgsbury’s brain, as it had before, and he would cease his butchering. Even insanity couldn’t completely harden his heart. Not when that pitiful creature sounded like the child he was so fond of.

Higgsbury’s back is to Maxwell, but he can tell by his posture that something is _very wrong._ His clothing is disheveled, his hair a tangled snarl, his back and shoulders hunched. The Eyebrella on his head somehow looks even _more_ ridiculous and out of place than usual. He sees the scientist raise a fist and bring it down on the obscured creature in front of him with another squelch.

“Oh, quit that racket. It'll be over soon.”

He hears Higgsbury cut out something and plop it wetly on the side of his workbench. A Spider Gland, still dripping.

“Only poison can cure poison, as they say. I'll save that for a Healing Salve.”

_Poison._

_You’re **poison.**_

_You’re Midas in reverse._

“You know, little Spider, I used to be incredulous about the whole ‘poison curing poison' thing, but the highly toxic strychnine can be counteracted with the equally as toxic curare, because they interact with the same nerve receptors but produce opposite effects. In the same vein, you can treat atropine poisoning with physostigmine, and vice-versa. Fascinating, don’t you think?

. . .Huh. The old hack was right. Take out the venom gland and they _are_ mostly digestive system. I guess I should have expected that, given how constantly they eat.”

The Spider starts screeching again, though its cries are significantly weaker. It was dying, finally.

**“SḨ̴̨̨̦̠̤̪͖͈̭̟͓̱̩̮̑́̀͒̍͌Ű̶̢̪͎̘̲̻͔͙͈͍̈́͌̾͒̀̊̄T̴̲̤͈͓̪̮̅̌̏̃̿͝U̴̧̯̳̻̞̦̥̜̰̰̝͙͉͌̌̾̉̔̑̂̈́̎̒̕͜P̷̨̱͙̩̬̙̳̩̹̤̝̦̱̯̔̅̑̏̽̅͊̏̕͜͠S̵͓̎͊͑̍̂̊Ḩ̵̢̳̼͇̺͓̥̪̮̮̝̞̿̓̔̈́͌̓͘͜ͅƯ̶̢̹̝T̷̼͒̔͐̓͑͂̃̈́͐̍̎̾͝Ừ̵̛̘͔̙̫̺͈̃͊̈̒̎̑̚͝ͅP̵̠̟͚͎̣̮̩̠̲̳̱̯̆͆̊̇͋̿͝S̶̳̥̋͐̉̈́̈́̓̒̎H̶̡̠̠̫͍̟̞̗͓̞̑̔̆̇̏͌̍̂̋̂̕͝͝͠ͅƯ̸̳͔̰͉͌̎͑̋̍͋̽͗̊̾̔͘Ţ̶̧̛̤͓̝̘̺͙̪̘͓̥͍̤̊͒̄̿̾͊̚Ǘ̸̞̯̰͔̝͈̻̥̝̊̌͌̌̑̄̂̃̌̽͐͘͜͝͠P̷̨̤͉͎̹̝̞̬̮̝̠̱̩̆Ŝ̴͎̮̳̼̙͈̾̓͂͗͒̔̇͘͠Ḩ̴̨̪͖̦͙̯̔͜͠Ư̸̧̱̬͍͍̪̝̣͈̏̈́̋̈̉̂̌̅̎͝T̵̳̞̭̞̺̃̌Ṷ̸̤̥̻̬͇̯̫̟̮̀̾͐̈̈̃̒̽̅͌̒̎̈́̚P̷̢̡̡̘͈͍̖̤̯͔͈̗̓̄͆̿̓!”**

Maxwell jumps as Higgsbury repeatedly smashes the gutted creature with his fist, until gore splashes out from either side of his workstation. When he stands back to let the rains wash away the mess, Maxwell can see there is almost _nothing left_ of the Spider, save for a dark smear of flattened, unrecognizable pulp.

“Ugh. All over my hands.”

And then he raises his soiled hands to his mouth and _licks them clean._

Maxwell retreats back into his Tent, clamping a hand over his own mouth before he can give himself away. He leans back against his desk, heart pounding so hard it makes his breastbone ache. He thought _nothing_ in this world could frighten him quite like T̸̢̡̲̱̥͕͍̲̬̿͐͛̌̈́h̴͔͍̝͍̱͍͒̉̓̄͛̈́͝ẹ̸̛͉̗̓͐̀̿̈́̇͌̒̓ͅm̷̡͍̟̙̟̲͕̹̣̖̲̯̋̓̎̊̍̂͊͐̍͘͜͠͝. . .until now. He was _terrified._

Terrified and unspeakably, ineffably, disturbingly, horrendously _aroused._

Terroroused.

_You’re sick. Absolute scum. The most unrepentant, incorrigible, irredeemable fucking slimeball it has ever been my misfortune to know._

_I should have left you to rot on the Throne._

Maxwell hears another creature, now. A struggle as Higgsbury drops it down heavily on his workbench. There’s the sound of a blunt object, possibly a Hammer, connecting with a skull, and the creature yelps.

A Hound.

“ _Hee,_ this seems kinda familiar, doesn’t it? The only difference is that I felt bad for the puppy. I don’t feel the slightest twinge of sympathy for _you_.” Higgsbury seems to be strapping down the beast, now. Its growls and whines are muffled, as if he’d somehow managed to gag it. “Ooooh, yesss, aren’t you just so big and healthy and _full of organs? Stars above, I'm going to enjoy every second of this._ ” The scientist giggles again, that carefree, alien sound that gives Maxwell chills. And to his complete and utter horror, Maxwell realizes he’s been rubbing himself through his trousers.

_By the by, Maxwell, here’s your Latin lesson for the day, since I know you've been struggling with it: the word “visection” comes from the Latin vivus, “alive,” and sectio, “cutting.” Isn’t Knowledge grand?_

_I bet you’re getting off on this, too,_

_you d̴͙̪͖̼̱̥̲̞͖̦̅͠ẽ̸̯͖̗͍̯̭̥̦̫̈́͊̒͊g̸̢̼̞̣̳̬̺̬̻̖̥̔͊͒̆ͅe̴̢̬̫͚̦͎̪͙͓͔͓͐̒͋͌̒̑̈͗̆͋n̸̨̠͍̞̼̫̟̓͌̈́̃̏͐͋͗̕e̶͎̻̩͍̯͗͗̊͋̏̂̐́̇̚͜͝r̸̨̛̰̙͇̞̐̓̒͑̽̃̈́̌͗̉͠ͅa̸͈͐͊̄t̴̢͇̙̗̥̩̝̣̭̆̓e̸̢̎̾̒́̎͗̈́̽̌̉̓͐̈̽._

_We're all gonna have so much fun learning together. You, me, and T̴̥̦͍̠͓̑̐̒̽́̏͌͐͘͜h̶͚̖͖̺͉̲̯̼̰̉̆̉͜ë̶̢̤̲͖̤͚̜͈͍ͅͅm̴̞̯̯͚̦̒̉̀̾̌͆͘͜͝͝._

But Higgsbury wasn’t under the influence of T̴̥̦͍̠͓̑̐̒̽́̏͌͐͘͜h̶͚̖͖̺͉̲̯̼̰̉̆̉͜ë̶̢̤̲͖̤͚̜͈͍ͅͅm̴̞̯̯͚̦̒̉̀̾̌͆͘͜͝͝. He had checked. This was. . .this was all Higgsbury, this time.

_A pity Charlie had to intervene. You would have made an excellent King._

“But first, before we start,” Higgsbury coos, “I’m going to yank out all your teeth, _one by one._ Can’t have you biting me like our last little friend, can we?”

Oh God, Higgsbury was going to _kill_ him. Willow was going to find him in his Tent tomorrow, dead of a brain aneurysm and with an erection harder than diamond.

The beast gives a smothered yelp for each tooth Higgsbury methodically rips from its head, humming some sort of cheerful, if not strangely discordant, tune as he works. Maxwell chances another furtive glance and sees Higgsbury dropping all the bloody fangs together in a chaotic jumble with what appears to be a set of improvised pliers. Many of the fangs have gum tissue still attached.

Somewhere deep within his cold, black heart, as Maxwell listens to one of his beautiful creations give small, gurgling whines as it drowns in its own blood, he feels the faintest stirrings of pity. Pity and anger. How dare the scientist take the creatures he had gone through such pains to create, and take them apart like a curious child for his own twisted amusement!?

_Greetings, Mr. Pot. I'd like to introduce you to my friend, Mr. Kettle._

. . .yes, he really had no room to talk, did he.

But then he hears the sound of wet suction, followed by a satisfied hum. And it dawns on him that Higgsbury is pausing between pulling teeth to _suck the Hound's blood from his fingers._

Maxwell’s knees buckle as he all but falls back into the tent, gripping the desk behind him for leverage. He bites down on his lip to hold back a whimper, and a deep shudder travels down his frail body as he ejaculates on the spot.

He accidentally scatters the papers from his desk as he struggles to hold himself up through his climax, and he gathers them up as quickly as he can without making too much sound. He’s still unsteady on his feet, and his flagging erection still pulses in the aftermath of that disgraceful, pathetic emission, but he succeeds in not drawing Higgsbury’s attention.

_But T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ seem to have taken a genuine liking to you._

_. . .to me? Why?_

_In my opinion? To see how far they can push a naïve, idealistic, and relatively harmless idiot before he breaks. And to see what happens when he does._

Except it wasn’t T̴̥̦͍̠͓̑̐̒̽́̏͌͐͘͜h̶͚̖͖̺͉̲̯̼̰̉̆̉͜ë̶̢̤̲͖̤͚̜͈͍ͅͅm̴̞̯̯͚̦̒̉̀̾̌͆͘͜͝͝ who had broken him, Maxwell realizes in the harsh light of post-(miserable)orgasm clarity, as he burns with shame and disgust. _He_ was the one who had broken the scientist. _He_ was the reason he was acting this way. And despite what Willow had said. . .he didn’t think this was temporary.

This had been a long time coming.

Not _just_ since the first time Higgsbury had kissed him days before.

Not _just_ when they had found Webber several months prior.

Not _just_ when he had found himself dropped back into The Constant a good month before that.

Maybe not even when Higgsbury had taken the Throne.

Maybe his mind had started becoming irreparably damaged somewhere during those five hundred-some deaths, and the Throne had only exacerbated it. Fed the blight that had already been germinating within him. And it was too late to cut it out. The damage had already been done.

_Your scientist is defective. You need a new one._

He sets the papers back down on his desk. . .but not before he spies one with but a single word on it, written in what is unmistakably Charlie’s hand.

_Filth._

Maxwell feels as if all the bones have been removed from his body at once. As if he had been subject to one of Higgsbury’s strange experiments in place of that Hound. Like he had cracked open the magician’s chest like the shell of a crab and hollowed it out, leaving a gaping red cavern of nothingness beneath either side of his splayed, broken ribcage. Full of naught but dust. And the Void. And T̴̥̦͍̠͓̑̐̒̽́̏͌͐͘͜h̶͚̖͖̺͉̲̯̼̰̉̆̉͜ë̶̢̤̲͖̤͚̜͈͍ͅͅm̴̞̯̯͚̦̒̉̀̾̌͆͘͜͝͝.

That’s all he was anymore. Dust, the Void, and T̴̥̦͍̠͓̑̐̒̽́̏͌͐͘͜h̶͚̖͖̺͉̲̯̼̰̉̆̉͜ë̶̢̤̲͖̤͚̜͈͍ͅͅm̴̞̯̯͚̦̒̉̀̾̌͆͘͜͝͝. The Codex and the Fuel were the only things keeping his atrophied body alive. He was just as empty as his world had been when he had first arrived. Just as hollow as one of his Puppets. Dull. Without substance. Powerless without Fuel.

He had lost the Throne.

Lost his power.

Lost Charlie.

Lost his favourite pawn.

What was the point.

He trudges over to his Fur Roll and drops facedown into it.

He listens to the rain. Listens to Higgsbury finish butchering one of his Hounds and giggling gleefully as he removes each of its organs and recounts their functions to no one in particular. Listens to the man fly into another unprovoked rage and beat the beast carcass into chunks of meat pulp and splinters of bone, all while loudly cursing Maxwell’s name. Listens as his anger gives way to delight once more as the rain washes away what remains of the monster he had so thoroughly eviscerated. Raucous, vicious laughter like bone saws, shattered femurs, broken glassware, and sulfuric acid.

Listens as those Cuban heels click past his Tent while he sucks his fingers and jauntily hums that little Ragtime tune.

And Maxwell does not move.

□■□■□■□■

“Hey, has anybody seen Wilson today?”

Woodie looks up from his whittling. “Can't say that I have. I just figured he was still in a bad mood and let him be, eh?”

“He seemed quite döur yesterday. I dö nöt blame him.” Wigfrid frowns as she polishes her Battle Spear. “The stress öf battle must be taking its töll.”

“And argument with tiny frailman did not help, Wolfgang thinks. What you think, strange clownman?”

Wes takes a long black balloon and lovingly crafts it into an effigy of the magician with a flourish and a smile. And then squeezes it until it pops.

“. . .You are mad at tiny frailman still.”

Wes folds his arms and nods, scowling.

“I do hope they both will be all right,” Wendy sighs. “They’re both quite stubborn, and who knows when either of them will try to reconcile.”

“Wilson is just feeling the pressure, I think,” Warly adds thoughtfully. “He tends to take any failure or perceived slight very personally. Maxwell does too, now that I think on it. Once they’ve had enough time to lick their wounds, they’ll be back to their usual selves.”

“Peel away their respective egos, and they’re really quite sensitive boys,” Wickerbottom sighs. “I am sure they’ll both rebound quickly enough, but it isn’t any less disheartening to see either of them in such a sorry state.”

“I've seen ‘em fight a lot— _a lot_ a lot—and this was definitely the worst. Like, someone call the police, I just watched an old man get murdered.”

Woodie winces. “I thought _Charlie_ had destroyed his ego after that little meltdown yesterday mornin', but then Wilson cut it oat with a scalpel and fed it to him piece by piece. It was really hard t'watch.” He shakes his head. “I said this to Wig before, but I never thought I'd feel _bad_ for the big hoser.”

“I talked to Maxwell earlier. I don’t think I've ever seen him so upset. Mad as a Killer Bee, but not upset. He didn’t yell at me for annoying him once.”

“Oof.” Warly grimaces. “He must be worse off than I thought. I should make him some comfort food.”

“I know he really loves mashed potatoes. You should make him your famous Creamy Potato Purée.”

Warly grins at Willow, a single eyebrow raised. “You've been paying attention to the foods Maxwell enjoys?”

Willow is sure her fires have somehow moved to her cheeks. “Y-Yeah, well. He just never shuts up about your cooking, that’s all.”

It’s Warly’s turn to blush, now. “I never imagined getting rave reviews from the King of The Constant himself. It’s a little overwhelming.”

“I think we’re _all_ a little overwhelmed by Maxwell just kinda. . .being here. It’s so weird. I mean, I'm getting used to it, but I still get kinda jumpy when I see him sometimes.”

Webber sits in his little Rain Coat and Rain Hat, sailing a Toy Boat through a large puddle. “He still makes us nervous. But only a little. I feel better when he’s with Mr. Wilson, even when they fight. Mr. Wilson is really good at making him mad, but he’s good at calming him down, too.”

“Now that you mention it, Webber. . .Uncle _does_ seem a little calmer when he’s around. Before they start fighting again, at least.”

“Well, he's his favourite pawn, eh? I think Maxwell slipped up an' actually told the truth, for once.”

Willow considers this. “Wilson was the only one he trusted to build the original Door, and the only one he allowed to read the Codex. I think he’s liked Wilson for a long time. And now that I think about it, I think Wilson’s liked him for a long time, too. He always sounds really happy when he talks about working together on stuff with him, even while complaining about it.”

Webber tilts his head. “Do you mean ‘like,’ or ‘like-like?’”

“Probably both. The tension between them has been feeling. . . _particularly_ charged, lately.”

“Oh, Lord, I thought Luce, Wig, and I were the only ones. Last week they got in each other’s faces over somethin’ and I thought they were gonna start makin' oat. Didn’t think it would actually happen, though. . .”

“They alsö give each öther curiöus lööks after slaying the great beasts öf this land tögether. At first I thöught it just the satisfactiön öf a hard-wön battle, but öne can feel sömething else there. The ‘charged tensiön’ yöu mentiöned.”

“Yeah, fighting—the killing kind, not the arguing kind—really seems to get their juices flowing. Ugh, that was a mental image I really didn’t need to put in my own head.”

“Actually, the arguin' kind seems to do it for ‘em, too, eh? Probably the adrenaline. Also, thanks fer makin' me gross myself oat too, Willow.”

“. . .could we. . . _not_ have this conversation about the unresolved sexual tension between my uncle and the scientist? It is making Abby and me deeply uncomfortable.”

Both Willow and Woodie blush.

“Right. Sorry, Wenders.”

“Yeah, sorey, little buddy. Ahem.”

“You pinky-promised you would let me ride your shoulders in your Werebeaver form. You can make it up to me that way.”

“Yeah, Woodie, you can’t renege on a pinky swear! That’s the most sacred one! Right up there with a spit shake or a blood oath!”

Wilson has finally made his appearance, glaring at Woodie with his hands on his hips. “These are important social contracts, you know. The very foundation of society itself!”

“I. . .do not think Locke or Rousseau would quite agree with your stance, Mr. Higgsbury. Especially in regards to ‘spit shakes' and ‘pinky swears.’” Wickerbottom adjusts her spectacles. “I am elated to see you’ve finally come out of hiding, however. But are you _quite_ all right? You look a bit. . .out of sorts.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Uh. . .your clothes are all wrinkled, for starters. And your waistcoat's all bloody? Just because it’s red doesn’t mean it hides the blood, you big nerd. Also your hair is looking. . .spikier than usual?”

“Oh. Huh.” Wilson takes off his waistcoat and holds it out in front of him. “Well, I'll be. You’re right. I guess I was science-ing a little too hard.”

“Uh. . .” Willow exchanges a worried glance with Wickerbottom, as does the rest of the camp with each other. “That’s not _your_ blood, is it?”

“Hm? Oh, no, it’s not mine.”

“. . .it’s not Maxwell’s, is it?”

Wilson’s face furrows into a deep scowl. **“N̷̜̋͜o̴͙̮̔̽.̴̩͑ ̷̤̐Ị̵͈̄t̵̜̫͘'̵̻̄͝ș̷͛̆ ̴̜̎̐ń̷̦͂o̸̧͍͠ṫ̵̡̘̓ ̵̢̇ḫ̵͓̆i̶̳͍͘s̵̯̖͗̒.̶̟̎̈”**

“Okaaaaay. . .” Willow takes him by the hand and leads him over to his usual seat beside her, now underneath the shelters Wigfrid and Wickerbottom had put together the previous night. “Let’s dial back the spookiness just a teensy-tiny little bit, ‘kay?”

“Mm.” Wilson sits, then removes his Eyebrella. “Warly, may I borrow some soap and a scrub brush?”

“Ah, yes, of course, _mon ami._ Would you. . .care for some tea? You look like you’ve spent all day in the rain.”

“Yes, I'll take some. The regular kind, please. Don’t want to use up all our Forget-Me-Lots.”

 _Maxwell looked like he’d been out in the rain this morning, too._ Willow studies Wilson pensively. _He doesn’t look like he’s been crying, but this isn’t just his usual case of the grumps. Something’s. . .really not right, here._

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“Open your mouth.”

Wilson gives her a deadpan look. “Really.”

“Just do it before I do it for you.”

Wilson rolls his eyes, but eventually obliges.

“Hmm. No Shadows.”

“ _Of course_ there’s no Shadows. Why _would_ there be? Wendy expertly took care of that.”

“. . .it wasn’t just me,” Wendy counters quietly, fiddling with Abigail’s Flower. “It was Uncle, too.”

Wilson scoffs, and Wendy’s shoulders sink.

“Hey,” Willow stands, tugging on his hand. “Stand up a second.”

“What? Alright, fine. But this better not—”

Willow pulls back and punches him in the stomach. _Hard._

Wilson drops to the ground with a wheeze and a weak cough, curled into a ball. He gags up a froth of blood and bile, but nothing else.

“Okay, yeah. Definitely no Shadows.”

“ _Ms. Willow._ ” Wickerbottom is stern. “Was that _really_ necessary?”

“I had to be sure!”

“W-Well,” Wilson wheezes, “I h-hope y-your c-curiosity is sated.”

“It is. Sorry I had to do that to you.” She extends her hand to help him up.

“N-No, Willow. _I'm_ sorry.” He grasps her around the forearm.

**“S̷̙̥̀̿o̸̬̘̕r̷̪̣̃̿r̸̖͑͂y̷̜̽ ̷̰̯̽v̸̨͖̽̚ȋ̵͖ö̵͈l̷̨̥͊ẹ̵̐̆ņ̸̏͜c̴̟̮̈̎ȩ̶̟ ̸̫̝̊i̸̡̗̒s̶̮̽͝ ̸͕͍͝t̸̘̕h̷̝͛̈e̸̛̫ ̶͚͉̎̈o̵̭̓͜͝n̶̫l̶̢̘̽y̶̺̓̆ ̸̘̱̐l̴͈͘a̴̻̽̓ͅn̴̮͆g̷̗͛͝ͅǘ̸̡ȁ̸̗̃͜g̵̞͂e̷̮͛̃ ̴̨̩̄͋ y̴̗͊ͅọ̶͖̉̎ǘ̴͚̾ ̷̬͝ͅũ̶̞n̷̮͚̈́̚d̷̻̚e̷̬͊͂r̸͎̚s̵̡̿̍t̶̢̛̫̀a̷̡̤͝n̶͚̳̏d̵̡̈́.̷̲̮̒̕”**

“Wait, wh—ow! Wilson, what the hell!? That hurts!”

His fingers sink deeply into the flesh of her arm as he yanks himself up, blood starting to well from around his claws.

His _claws_.

His **_claws_** _._

“Wilsön, stöp! You’re hurting her!”

“Wig, wait! Don’t touch him! Look at his arm!”

The entirety of Wilson's right arm is a writhing mass of Shadow, jagged and sinister. Willow would be entranced by what looks like tongues of dark flame licking his shoulder and rippling from the sharp point of his elbow—if he wasn’t about to crush the bone in her forearm.

“Wilson!” Tears sting her eyes. “That really hurts! Stop it!”

 **“İ̵̹̲f̶̍͜ ̸̯̋I̸̧̽ ̸͇͘s̶̠͛ͅt̷͔̿ǫ̶̯̐p̶̣̃,̶̲̹̔̚ ̷̜͌ÿ̴̢̭́o̷̯̕u̵̻͉͋ ̷̥ẅ̷͕͚́o̵̯͋ņ̵̢͂'̸̞͎͊͂ṯ̸̛ ̵͈̈́l̸̲͇͑̓e̶͍̅a̷̼̿̊r̵͙̓n̵͉̎.̵͜”** His lips curl in a snarl, and even his hair and eyes seem to flicker like dark flame in time with his arm. **“W̸̨̦ẹ̸̒ͅ'̴̬r̸̛̬̭͘ȅ̸̘͒ ̵̪̃͐ _ḷ̸͔̓ḙ̵̹̇å̵̤͙r̷͙̬͌͆n̶̰̐i̵͎͑̈́n̵͚̄̋g̸̳̺̏͋_.̶̻̀”**

 **“** Mr. Wilson, stop! You’re being mean!” Webber leaps on his back, yanking on his hair.

Wilson grunts in pain, but doesn’t relinquish his grip. **“Y̵͓̊͠o̶̤͒͜u̵̹̼̍ ̸̼̅ą̸̗̂͌r̵̙̃e̶̗͂̒ ̵͈̈͑i̶̯̅͗n̴͓͠t̴̮̄e̷̗̔ŗ̵̺̀r̵̲ù̷̮̫̾p̴͚̗͂͒t̷̝̼̿i̷̛̩͊n̷͕̜̈́͠g̷̗̗̓̾ ̶͍̩̌̔m̴͓̰͐ÿ̸͓ͅ ̴̨̈̈l̷͉̯̎̀e̵̡̾s̷̙̦̋ş̵͑̌o̴̘͋n̸̩̽̚͜,̵̯̄ ̴̛̺̈́W̷̗͑̊ĕ̴͈ḅ̸̯̕b̷͙e̴̹͒r̶͔͑.̷̳͍́̎:”**

“I'm sorry, Mr. Wilson, but I can’t let you hurt Ms. Willow!” He rears up with a hiss and sinks his fangs deep into his neck.

Wilson gasps and releases Willow, who clutches her bleeding arm to her chest. The shock to his system seems to return him to normal—the Shadow covering his arm dissipates, and his hair seems to soften back to its normal curled shape.

But his eyes are simply clouded now instead of aflame. And the front of his shirt is liberally soaked with blood.

“Oh, stars. I appear to be dying. I think my artery got nicked.”

_You need only make a slight incision along the artery to bleed out in seconds. The trick is to do it properly. Sever the part closest to the spine and you cut off blood to the brain and pass out. Sever the part along the throat and you pass out from the rapid blood loss._

Wendy gets to him first, snatching the abandoned waistcoat and pressing it firmly against his neck. _“By the fires of Hell, Wilson! You can be such a nuisance sometimes!”_

Wilson chuckles weakly. “You really do sound so much like him. It makes my chest feel. . .weird. . .”

_Then you feel really sleepy and just flop over, which I assume I did. Kind of nice, compared to, say, getting devoured by Hounds or freezing to death._

“ _No_.” She yanks on his hair. “Don’t you _dare_ fall asleep.”

“Why does everyone. . .always have to touch the hair. Is it. . .that inviting?” His head starts to sink into his chest, but he’s brought back by a hard slap.

“Oh. . .Willow. . .I'm sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Let me. . .see your arm.”

“God, Wilson, you’re such a. . .such a stupid jerk!”

“I know. I'm sorry. Arm. . .please.”

She bites her quivering lip and holds out her arm for him to inspect.

“Ugh, puncture wounds. Can’t let those get. . .infected. Ms. Wiggerboddum. . .I need sum Salve. . .an' a Poultisss. . .an' some Silk. . .”

“Whoa, hey!” Willow gives his cheek another slap. “Come on, jerk, stop slurring and stay awake!”

“I don’t know what's happening!” Wendy sounds panicked. “I'm keeping pressure on the wound, but the bleeding won’t stop!”

_“Oh no! Ohnonononono! I'm a murderer!”_

“Shhhhh. You’re nodda murderer. You’re a very brave boy. Come sidd in my lap, okay? If you wann to. I need you to be Dr. Webber for me.”

Webber tearfully climbs into Wilson’s lap. Wilson pats him on the head. “So brave. Sucha brave little boy. It takes a lotta guts to stand up t’wun fren to protecc another. You saved my bess fren. So thank you.” Wilson nestles his cheek against Webber’s head fur. “I guess I wuz the real monsster all along, huh? Charlie wuz right. Can't escape th' pull of th' Throne.”

“Wilson. . .”

“I said Maxwell wuz the poison, but it wuz _me._ The poison has been inside _me_ all along. That’s. . .” He sighs. “That’s depressing.”

“Hey, don’t. . .don’t talk like that.” Willow cups his cheek. “You’re one of the sweetest, kindest people I know.”

“I dunno ‘bout that. I almoss snapped your arm.”

“Yeah, well, I shouldn’t have punched you while you were clearly upset. Besides, Maxwell gave me brain damage, and I still cared enough to bring him breakfast and not burn the book he needs to stay alive.”

Wilson chuckles, but then his smile fades. “. . .how wuz he?”

“Depressed as hell. Spent the whole night chain-smoking. Then decided to spend the morning chain-smoking, except in the rain.”

“. . .Oh. I really, uh. . .” He pauses, patting Webber’s head. “I really _hecked_ up, diddin I.”

“If you wanna make it up to me, you’ll swallow your pride and apologize to him. And promise you won’t suck his, uh. . .”

Wilson snorts. “I'd probly blush if I had any blood left in my head-ish area. Wendy, juss hang on a liddle longer, please? You can stop once Webber an' I ged Willow patched up.”

“Wilson, if I let go, you _die!_ ”

“Haven' we all died like a billion times ad this poind? Death is jus' a minor inconvenience now. Besides, we have Effigies. I made wun for Wes this mornig. I'll jus’ make another wun fer me. S'not a big deal.”

Wendy sighs. “Such a troublesome scientist.”

“Heh. Where izzzz Wiggerboddum, anyway? Did I ask her to get the. . .thing?”

“I'm here, I'm here, I apologize. We need to restock our medicine Chest.”

“I'll do thad tomorrow mornig. Sorry for havig another. . .spell. Luckily Webber snapped me out of id preddy quick. Will you read him an' Wendy an' extra bedtime story tonight?”

“Of course, Wilson, of course. Foolish boy. Do you enjoy making us worry about you?”

Wilson’s face falls. “No. . .”

“Here, I boiled some water. And your tea.” Warly sighs. “What are we going to do with you, _mon ami?_ ”

“’M sorry. . .”

“I do not mean to be so brusque, but can we _please_ wait until the man has finished dying before piling on to him?”

Wickerbottom and Warly look at Wendy in surprise.

“. . . _Je suis désolée._ ”

“. . .I apologize, dear.”

Warly sheepishly gives Wilson his mug of tea, and Wilson closes his trembling hands around it.

“Thank you, Warly. Thank you, Ms. Wiggerboddum. I promise I'll eggsplain everythig wen I come back.” He takes a shallow breath. “Okay, Dr. Webber, are you ready?”

The close proximity to Wilson, as well as his affection and reassurance, seems to have calmed the spiderchild down somewhat, despite the man's impending death. He nods.

“Good. Firss, wipe off the blood with th' hot water an’ the Silk. Be gennle, an' don' burn your fingies.”

Willow snorts through her tears. “‘Fingies?’”

“Issa scientific term fer ‘phalanges.’”

“It is not, you dope.”

Wilson takes a sip of tea. “Who's the scientiss.”

Webber also gives a small, teary chuckle. “You heard him, Ms. Willow. ‘Fingies' are a scientific term.”

Wendy rests her head on his back, the only place not covered in his blood. “Idiot.”

“I love you too, Maxwell Junior. Okay, Webber, now brush on a liddle of thad Healing Salve. Bedder safe than sorry with. . .Shadow stuff. Usually a Poultiss would be ‘nuff, but again. . .” He looks at his now normal right arm and frowns. “Plus I wuz doin' nod-so-hygienic ‘speriments earlier. More on thad layder.

. . .okay, nex you jus' stig thad Honey Poultiss ride on there. An' smooth id down. Nod too hard. There we go. Perf.” Wilson makes an “okay" symbol with his thumb and forefinger. “Grade job, Dr. Webber.” He takes another sip of tea to wet his throat. “Okay, Wendy. You can leggo, now.”

Wendy sniffles and removes the blood-soaked waistcoat from his neck.

“Hey, don' be upset! I'll be ride back, you silly thing! I'll give Abby a big hug for you.”

Wendy just nods and clings to his back. Willow and Webber hug him from the front.

“. . .You guys are warm. I feel a liddle. . .chilly.”

Warly says nothing, only pressing into Wilson’s left shoulder and supporting the back of his head. Wickerbottom silently pets his hair.

The last thing he is aware of is a cold hand on his forehead and an ethereal voice murmuring in his ear: “I'll see you in a sec, Wilson.”

And then he drifts off peacefully in the arms of his friends.

□■□■□■□■

“Okay, this time you really _are_ dead.”

“Heh. Those pesky neck arteries, huh? Hi again, Abby.”

Abigail swats him upside the head. “You jerk! This is the _second time_ you've done this!”

“Ow! Wait, done wh—oh, _that._ I'm surprised you remember that. Weird, I was just thinking about that today. Dunno what triggered it, though. . .”

Abigail scowls as she floats in front of him, hands on her hips. “You made Wendy _and_ Webby cry. You are in _deep trouble,_ mister.”

Wilson hangs his head. “S-Sorry.”

“Did you go insane again? That’s usually how stuff like this happens with you.”

“I. . .might've.”

Abigail sighs, looking—and sounding—not unlike an exasperated Maxwell. “What did you do _this time._ ”

“Fought some Spiders and a Hound?”

Abigail folds her arms. “Uh-huh. What else.”

“Maybe ate a Green Cap?”

“Raw?”

“. . .Mayyyyyyybe.”

“How many.”

“. . .Two?”

Abigail gives him a look. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Telling you?” He clears his throat. “Ahem. Telling you.”

“Just two.”

“Yes. No. Three.”

“Three Green Caps.”

“Yes.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Abigail slaps a hand to her face and shakes her head. “Wilson. . .you big dummy.”

“Well, that’s two Carters to tell me I'm a moron today. If I can get Maxwell to talk to me, we might get a hat trick.”

“. . .you mean what Uncle Max does with a bunny?”

“No, a hat trick is three consecutive. . .nevermind. Don’t worry about it. I hate sports, anyway.”

Abigail’s expression softens. “Is that the reason you did it?”

“What, went insane? No, not over sports.”

She facepalms a second time. “Uncle Max.”

“Oh, _that._

Um.

A little.

Maybe.

Yes.

. . .Yes.”

Wilson gives a small, uncomfortable cough.

“That fight really messed you up, huh.”

“. . .little bit.” Wilson sighs. “I thought. . .I dunno. I thought if he was making stuff worse, then I could just. . .stop liking him if I made myself mad enough. And that I would stop thinking about him if I _drove_ myself mad enough. But it didn’t work the first five hundred times, so I don’t know why I thought it would work this time.”

Abigail drifts around behind him and folds her arms atop his head. “If somebody asked me to describe how you act in four words, I would say, ‘ _this_ time, for sure.’”

“Hey, now, failure is just—”

“‘—success in progress.’ How could I forget?”

“Heh. Clever girl.”

She looks down at him. “So whatcha gonna do now?”

“Now that I know going too mad-scientist-y seems to make the Throne-y parts come out? Not sure. I should really apologize to Maxwell before anything else, though. Should probably tell him that we're _both_ poison, too.

. . .wait a second.

Wait, that’s it! Abby, _that’s it!_ ”

“What? _What’s_ it?”

Wilson takes her ghostly hands in his own and swings her around. _“We're both poison!”_

“Whoa! Wilson, calm down! What are you talking about?”

_“Only poison can cure poison!”_

_I used to be incredulous about the whole “poison curing poison” thing, but the highly toxic strychnine can be counteracted with the equally as toxic curare, because they interact with the same nerve receptors but produce opposite effects. In the same vein, you can treat atropine poisoning with physostigmine, and vice-versa._

“I still don’t get it.”

“Okay, think about the chemical strychnine and the plant extract curare, which is commonly—err, that might be a little complicated. Let me try again. Have you ever seen a venomous snake?”

“Um, at the zoo, once. Why?”

“Do you know how to treat a snakebite?”

“Suck the venom out?”

“NO. BAD. NO. NO.” Wilson forms an X with his arms and vehemently shakes his head. “NEVER, EVER DO THAT. It just makes the wound worse. No, what you do is administrator antivenin.”

“Antivenin?”

“An antidote. Which is made of. . .?” He makes a sweeping, encouraging motion with his arms. “Go on. Take a guess.”

“. . .snake venom?”

“Precisely.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widen. “OH.”

“So if I manage to make myself worse the more I try to separate from Maxwell, then being closer to him should actually make me _better_ , right?”

“I. . .guess? I get what you’re saying, but how do you know it’ll work?”

“I don’t. But we'll find out.” Wilson pounds his fist into his open palm. “Okay, I'm gonna go revive myself. Then smooch a magician. For _science_.”

“Wait! You should probably _warn everyone_ before you start smooching in the name of science, don’t you think? Just in case?”

Wilson pauses. “Ah. Good point.” He rubs his forehead. “I _really_ don’t want to make everyone’s lives harder than I have already, especially after the events of last night.”

“And you’re talking to me right now because of the _last_ brilliant idea you had.”

Wilson winces. “You really don’t pull any punches, do you. Quite like Wendy in that regard.”

Abigail actually grins, now. “Hey, at least you know I'll always be here to give you a reality check when you need it.”

Wilson chuckles, absently running a hand through his own ethereal hair. “The irony of a specter whose very existence defies reality doling out a much-needed dose of it is not lost on me. Though I really do value your honesty. I know I can always count on you and Wendy to give me a frank and relatively unbiased opinion on just about anything, even if I don’t want to hear it. _Especially_ when I don’t want to hear it.”

Abigail musses his hair. “Hey, what are friends for, if not for giving you a good kick in the pants?”

“Ha, I get enough of that from Willow.” Wilson's smile fades. “Poor Willow. I think I really stepped in it this time. Luckily Webber managed to snap me out of it, but. . .I never actually tried to badly hurt her before. It was kind of like. . .”

_G̸o̶ ̶c̶r̷a̵w̸l̶ ̴b̵a̶c̸k̸ ̴i̷n̸t̵o̸ ̴t̵h̴e̴ ̸g̴u̴t̷t̷e̶r̵ ̵y̶o̵u̵r̵ ̴p̴a̵r̶e̴n̵t̸s̷ ̶l̸e̴f̷t̴ ̷y̶o̶u̸ ̴i̴n̶,̵ ̵y̷o̶u̷ ̸r̸o̵t̴t̵i̶n̷g̸ ̵w̷h̷o̵r̷e̸.̴_

Abigail seems to be thinking the same thing. “Do you think that was the Shadow inside you? Or the insanity?”

“Could have been both. I could hear T̸̢̡̲̱̥͕͍̲̬̿͐͛̌̈́h̴͔͍̝͍̱͍͒̉̓̄͛̈́͝ẹ̸̛͉̗̓͐̀̿̈́̇͌̒̓ͅm̷̡͍̟̙̟̲͕̹̣̖̲̯̋̓̎̊̍̂͊͐̍͘͜͠͝ so clearly. Like. . .like being on the Throne again. Same with yesterday. Though today I was able to mostly shut them out, probably because I was so focused on, ah. . .acquiring Knowledge.”

_Do ask him about some of his living experiments sometime. I'm sure you'll find it quite. . .illuminating._

“Were you. . .performing those vivi-whatevers? Because you've been acting pretty sketchy whenever that subject comes up.”

“I. . .yes.”

“On Spiders and Hounds, I assume.”

“Correct.”

“That’s. . .kinda messed up, Wilson.”

“. . .Can’t say it really bothered me too much until everyone started getting all judge-y about it.”

“I mean. . .at least it wasn’t on innocent animals, I guess. Though to be fair, we're probably all a little messed up, if we weren’t before. Willow likes setting _people_ on fire. And Uncle Max, well. . .we all know what a sick little puppy _he_ can be.

. . .And I guess I can’t really talk, either. My specialty is making everything that dares lay a single finger on Wendy die.” Her little fists clench, and for a split-second, Wilson swears he's meeting a certain magician’s icy glare. _“Everything.”_

“Easy there, killer. Rein it in juuuuuust a smidge. Little more Abby, little less Maxwell.”

“Err.” She gives him a rueful, adorably gap-toothed smile, folding her arms behind her head. “Sorry. My bad.

You know, I was pretty mad at the time when I woke up to you bleeding all over my Flower, but your blood _was_ pretty revitalizing. Must be all the science in there.”

“I said a little _less_ Maxwell.” But Wilson smiles in spite of himself. “Glad you found my meat juice to be up to snuff. You and Uncle Max both have quite the discerning palate.”

Abigail gives him a quizzical look, and Wilson claps his hands over his mouth.

_“Oh my God please tell me he’s not **actually** a vampire.”_

“No, just. . . _very_ Maxwell.”

“So you’re blood-bonded to both of us, is what you’re saying.”

“All three. I think I bled all over poor Wendy earlier.”

“Well, darn.” Abigail holds out her arms and grins. “Welcome to the Carter family, Uncle Wil!”

Wilson holds his face in his hands. “Oh, stars, _please_ don’t start calling me that.”

“You know what they say, you make a blood pact with somebody, you marry their whole family. Higgsbury-Carter's got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“ _Please,_ no _._ ”

“Sorry, Wilson, those are the rules. Blood oaths and pinkie swears. No backsies.” Abigail jumps on his back, arms looped around his neck. “One of us! _One of us!_ ”

“I'm going to go haunt a Meat Effigy just so I can kill myself again.”

“Welcome again to the Magic Murder Syndicate. Please enjoy your complimentary Carter curse.”

“The Carters are cursed?”

“Have you been paying attention? They'd _have_ to be. It’s the only logical explanation for how _three of us_ came to be trapped here. Well. . .” she ruffles his hair, “ _four,_ now.”

Wilson groans.

“So hurry up and make up with him, yeah? I wanna be a flower girl. Wendy probably does, too. Just. . .no kissing yet, please. Put that poison-cures-poison theory on the back Bunsen burner for now.”

Wilson snorts. “Alright, alright. Scientific smooching suspended, but only because _you_ asked.”

“Heehee.” Abigail gives him a squeeze. “Also, as much as I enjoy our chats, _please_ stop dying. My little ghosty heart hurts whenever I see your body with all the science pouring out of it.” She sighs. “You'd think being dead for so long would make it easier to deal with.”

Wilson gently disentangles himself from her and turns around to give her a proper hug, resting his chin in her hair. “I'll try.”

“. . .Oh.” Abigail slowly winds her arms around his back. “I. . .I forgot how nice hugs are.”

“Abby. . .” Wilson murmurs into shakily her hair, “you’re g-gonna make me cry.”

“Heh.” She nestles her cheek against his chest and closes her eyes. “It’s like hugging Father again.”

“Abby, c-come on.” The scientist sniffles. “N-Now you’re breaking _my_ ghosty h-heart.”

“. . .I know everyone’s probably worried, but can we stay like this? Just for a little bit longer?”

“Of course.” His chest inflates with a deep, though tremulous, breath beneath her cheek. “Of course.

. . .This hug's for Wendy, too, by the way.”

“Heehee. Give her one back for me.”

“I will.”

“Never thought you’d be a conduit for the supernatural, did you?”

“I'm the science-y kind of conduit, so it’s okay. Like a water pipe, or covering for electrical wire. Or I guess a conduit for hug transfer. Science-y hugs.”

“You’re so weird.”

“I know.”

They stay joined in an embrace for a while, Wilson stroking her hair as she nuzzles his chest every so often.

“Heh. I'm not used to all these hugs. It’s a little strange, after being alone for so long.”

“Didn't your parents ever hug you?”

Wilson is quiet a moment. “. . .No.”

“. . .Oh. I'm sorry.”

“It’s okay. I lived. That’s probably why I'm not the most ‘touchy-feely guy,’ as Willow would say.”

“Ms. Wickerbottom says you and Uncle Max are actually really sensitive.”

“That’s. . .probably accurate. I feel like I've turned into this big crybaby since I've gotten here. To this particular part of the Board, I mean. With everybody here. I used to just. . . _not_ feel things. Or at least not so intensely. It’s a bit much, sometimes.”

“Yeah, Uncle Max isn’t used to feelings, either. You’re just two emotionally-constipated peas in a pod.”

Wilson snorts.

“You can’t even say you like each other. You just said ‘I hate you’ and he said ‘I hate you too,’ and then. . .huh.”

“. . .What's up, buttercup? You sound like you just thought of something.”

“When he kissed you, he sucked some of the Shadow stuff out of your mouth. Then you stopped coughing.”

“Is. . .is _that_ what happened?”

“Yeah. I remember ‘cause he just blew it in the air, like he does when he smokes. So. . .I think poison might be the cure, after all. But I'd still wait on it.”

“Huh. Thanks for letting me know. This, uh, isn’t too weird for you, isn’t it? All this talk about your uncle and kissing?”

Abigail shrugs. “Eh. Everything stops being so weird once you’ve been dead a while. Most things that would bother you just kinda. . .stop bothering you. And Wendy and I have seen. . .a lot.”

Wilson sympathetically pats her head. “I don’t doubt that.”

“Honestly, it feels like a lot of things have seemed to stop bothering the others, too. Maybe because they've all died so much.” She chuckles. “But you've probably died the _most_ , and you worry about _everything_. So there goes that theory.”

“I'm just the outlier, I suppose. A statistical anomaly.”

“Well, you’re my favorite anomaly. After Wendy.”

Wilson blushes. “Oh, goodness. Thank you. I'm flattered.

And you’re _my_ favorite affront to science. Along with Webber. Both of you should _not_ exist,” he gives her a squeeze, “but I am so, _so_ glad you do.”

Abigail sniffles into his chest.

“Oh no! Don’t cry! Oh, now I feel like a jerk!” He tips her face up and wipes away her tears with his thumbs. “I just can’t stop until I've made every child cry today, can I?”

“It’s a h-happy cry, you dope.”

“It doesn’t make me feel any less jerk-y.”

“Heehee. Jerky.” She smiles through her tears and pinches his sides. “Dead enough, but not dry enough.”

“EeeeEEEee!” Wilson jumps. “No pinching!”

“. . .was that a _squeal_? You sound like those Pigmen!” Abigail laughs, tears forgotten, and gives his sides another several squeezes. “ _Piggsbury_. Heehee.”

“ _Eee-hee-hee!_ Stop, stop! No! Bad!” He bats her hands away.

“Oh my God.” Abigail brings a hand to her mouth. “You’re _ticklish_. That’s _hilarious_.”

“I'm not! And don’t tell anyone! If Willow finds out—”

Abigail giggles. “So you’re _not_ ticklish, and I can’t tell anybody.” She pokes his ribs. “Makes sense. Got it.”

“S-Stop! I-I'm serious!” He grabs her by the wrists.

“Alright, alright! Jeez, you look like I just found out you were an axe murderer that eats kittens for breakfast or something.” She grins. “Your dark secret's safe with me. _I'll take it to my grave._ ”

Wilson scowls.

“Okay, seriously. Our secret.”

The scientist eases, but then a sort of. . .shifty expression crosses his visage. “If you can keep this a secret, I'll tell you another. But you gotta _promise_ me you won’t breathe a word of this to _anyone. Not even Wendy._ ”

“Not even Wendy? Ooooooh.” Abigail rubs her hands together like an eager little housefly. “Sounds juicy. Alright, science man, lay it on me.”

“Promise me, first.”

Abigail extends her pinkie finger, and Wilson curls his around hers. “No backsies,” he reminds her, far more grimly and with more severity than the situation warrants.

“No backsies. Dead girls tell no tales, after all.”

Fingers still linked, Wilson bends to whisper in her ear.

_“Maxwell’s ticklish, too.”_

Abigail brings both hands to her mouth, now. _“No way.”_

“Yes way. And if you tell **_anyone_** _he_ _will kill me so hard I’ll die to death. A hundred times over._ ”

“You can count on me to be as silent as. . .well. . .the grave.”

“Thank you. Although. . .” Wilson grins coyly. “Watch his face _very_ closely the next time we sit together. That’s all I'll say.”

“You’re not a _mad_ scientist. You’re an _evil_ scientist.”

“A little of Column A, a little of Column B. And he’s an evil magician, so.”

“He's gonna be a _furious_ magician if you harass him too much.”

“It'll just be a _little_ harassment, I promise. And, uh, _family-friendly_ harassment.”

“Good, because I don’t want to have to gouge out my innocent little virgin ghosteyes because you two decided to start playing grab-ass with each other in mixed company.”

Wilson chokes.

_“Abigail Lillian Carter! Who taught you to say such **filth,** young lady!?”_

Abigail just grins. Very cheekily.

“. . . _Willow_. Stars and atoms.”

“Totally worth it just for the look on your face.”

He rubs his face. “Just. . .don’t say that in front of Maxwell. He'll drop dead of a massive stroke.”

“Hmm. I dunno, Wilson. That sounds pretty hilarious to me. Giving the devil his due.”

“. . .That’s not what that idiom means, but good try. Maybe we'll have a lesson on Devil-themed idiomatic expressions. Bless Ms. Wickerbottom, but her lessons are often a bit. . .dry.”

“As long as you promise to teach while Uncle Max is around.”

“My darling Abby, his presence is a _requirement_.”

She laughs, then cocks her head. “Say, pal. . .how do you know my middle name?”

“. . .Was the ‘say, pal' intentional, or. . .?”

She pinches his sides, earning another yelp. “Ah ah ah, I asked first.”

“ _Stop that!_ But, uh. . .that’s a good question. How _did_ I know that?”

The image of an open diary crosses his mind, dried flowers pressed into its pages.

_April 16 th, 1914_

_I keep hearing strange music when I dream. . .the same song repeating over and over. . .is it you, Abigail? Are you trying to tell me something?_

Among the clutter on the nightstand, a torn flier advertising the services of some quack “professor" spirit medium. A torn photograph of five stricken-looking strangers sitting around a table, a series of melting candles placed in the middle. An impressive, thick, leather-bound tome, _The Spiritualist’s Compendium_ written in elegant gold leaf. And its subtitle: A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO SÉANCES.

In the midst is—

“Your memorial card. Or funeral program? Wendy always kept it on her nightstand, with her diary. Yes, I remember now.”

Abigail frowns. “T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ showed you? On the Throne?”

“Yes. I remember because it affected me so deeply. That’s also when I put two and two together in regards to your relationship with one William Carter. Maxwell’s true identity was the first piece of Knowledge T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ saw fit to bestow upon me, for whatever reason. Maybe as consolation for being tricked for the. . .” He thinks. “Second time? Third time? I kinda lost count.”

_Better you than me._

“Do you regret it? Freeing him? Taking his place?”

“No. I don’t regret freeing Maxwell, nor do I regret taking the Throne. Was I angry about it? Yes. But it opened my mind. . .to new. . .possibilities. . .”

_I have discovered something, a book of sorts. I have yet to decode it fully, but what little I have deciphered has **opened my mind to terrifying new possibilities.**_

Abigail snaps her fingers in front of his face. “Yoo-hoo, Wilson! Come on back down to the spiritual plane, buddy!”

“Huh? What? Oh. Yes. Right. Sorry. Just had a little. . . _déja vu_ moment, there.” He shakes his head. “Besides, if I hadn’t freed Maxwell, I would have never gotten to meet you, or Wendy, or Webber, or Willow, or Warly. . .”

“. . .or kissed an old guy on his old grandpa lips. . .”

“. . .Really, Abigail. Dying was bad enough, now _you_ have to keep making fun of me, too?”

“Oh, boo-hoo, my name is Wilson Percival Higgsbury, did you know dying sucks? No, thank you for enlightening me, scientist, I hadn’t noticed.”

Wilson’s eyes narrow, but he can’t keep from smiling. “You are just so full of sass, aren’t you.”

“Abigail L. Carter, Spooky Sass Master. Esquire.”

Wilson shakes his head. “Alright, Spooky Sass Master. Wilson P. Higgsbury, Spooky Scientist, should get going before everyone has a conniption over us _both_ being gone.”

He gives her one more hug—"this is from Wendy”—and a kiss on the cheek. “And that’s from me.”

Abigail blushes, touching her cheek in surprise.

“The _exact same faces._ All three of you.” Wilson laughs. “It really _is_ genetic.”

“Ugh! No one asked you, stupid scientist!” She starts trying to push him out of. . .wherever they are. “Go away, shoo! Go bother someone else!”

“Oh, man, something must be wrong with my ears. I'm hearing triple.”

“That’s not a thing! Go on! Out!”

Wilson chuckles. “See you back at the campfire, Abby.”

□■□■□■□■

The entire camp stares at Wilson’s Skeleton.

“He's sure taking his sweet-ass time, isn’t he.”

Webber looks worriedly at Wendy. “Do you think he got lost?”

“No, Abigail is with him. I am sure they’re just having a chat. They are quite. . .similar, in some respects.”

“How do you mean, Wenders?”

_Troublemakers can always recognize other troublemakers. I was a bit of a rapscallion as a kiddo, too._

“They’re both trouble.”

“Ha! You can say that again. The good news is he's taking so long that I've gone from feeling sad to just being pissed off.”

“Oh, let him have his conversation with young Miss Abigail. She seems to very much enjoy his company.” Wickerbottom looks sympathetic, however. “Wendy, Webber, are you two all right? Would you like another sweet?”

“No, I'm okay. Thank you, Ms. Wickerbottom.”

“I, too, have recovered. Death is inevitable. It awaits us all. And though we can cheat it with sorcery, we can never _truly_ escape its icy clutches.”

“Oh, good. She _has_ recovered.” In spite of her glib remark, Willow's next words are surprisingly warm. “Just because you’re used to it doesn’t make it any easier, though.”

She pats Wendy's arm in consolation. “I know we're both kinda. . .prickly, and like to pretend nothing actually bothers us, but. . .I get it. I really do.”

Wendy gives Willow a small smile and hesitantly takes her hand. “Then let us watch the world burn together, Willow.”

“I'd like that, Wendy. I'd like that a lot.”

Webber grabs Wendy’s other hand. “Uh, you don’t mean that _literally_ , right?”

Willow and Wendy both grin at him.

“Come on, you two. . .y-you're starting to scare me. . .”

Woodie comfortingly pats his back. “Don’t worry, little buddy. Wig an' I will keep ‘em in check.” He playfully elbows Wigfrid. “Right, bud?”

Wigfrid grins, looping her arm in his. “As sure as Yggdrasil binds us like the nine wörlds, I will always fight at thy side. Yöu appear a simple wöödsman, but within yöu beats the heart öf—”

Wigfrid pauses, squeezing Woodie’s arm first with her own, then with her opposite hand.

“. . .I never realized until nöw, but yöu boast superior musculature. Reveal tö me thine secrets!”

“I, uh, swing Lucy aroand all day?”

“The enchanted axe that speaks withöut töngue? Perhaps therein lies the secret tö thy strength. Ör is it the curse? Hmm.” She palpates his bicep in much the same way Wilson checks for swelling in injured extremities. “Yöur arms are as hard as that öf the mighty trunk öf the wörldtree that watches över yöu. I must admit, I am enviöus.”

Everyone is staring, now. Wendy and Willow grin at each other.

“You seein' what I'm seein', Wenders?”

“I believe I do, Willow. I spy with my little eye. . .something shaggy and very, _very_ red.”

“Could it be. . .Woodie’s face right now?”

“. . .Y-You little missies best button your lips.”

“Heehee. The evil magician’s spell. . .it spreads. Like the plague.”

“OoOoOo, the Higgsbury-Carter hex! It makes everybody wanna suck each other's faaaaaaace! How spooooooky!”

“W-Will you two—g-go tease someone else, eh!?” Woodie yanks his arm out of Wigfrid's grip. “Buncha hosers, I swear.”

Wigfrid looks. . .confused. “Did I. . .dö sömething strange?”

“Bud, _everything_ you do is stra—OW!”

“Mind yöur töngue, wöödsman! I cöuld fell yöu like sö many trees!”

 _“No.”_ Webber crawls into either of their laps, making an X with his arms. All of them. “ _No fighting._ Only smooches.”

“What? What are—” Wigfrid looks from Webber to Woodie, who has his arms crossed in a huff. And is still _quite_ red in the face.

“. . .Öh.

ÖH.

**ÖH.**

UH.

WE ARE ALLIES. NÖTHING MÖRE.”

Everyone present—barring Woodie and Webber—grins at Wigfrid.

**“NÖTHING MÖRE, I SAID.”**

Wilson suddenly appears, soaking, out of breath, and with Abigail in tow. “Wetwetwet coldcoldcold!” He huddles underneath the shelter near his Skeleton, hugging himself. “W-Why a-are w-we y-y-yelling?”

**“THERE IS NÖ MAGICIAN’S CURSE.”**

“O-O-Okay?”

Abigail murmurs something beside him.

“N-No, t-t-there i-is n-no C-C-Carter F-Family C-Curse either, y-you m-made t-that up.”

Abigail adds something else.

“A-And s-stop c-calling y-yourselves t-the M-Magic M-M-Murder Syndicate, y-you’re n-not a crime f-family.”

Another unintelligible ghostly murmur.

“I-I-I d-don't c-care if M-M-Maxwell dresses l-like a m-mob boss! N-No m-mafia!”

Abigail sulks.

“I seem to have missed quite the discussion.”

“T-That m-m-makes t-two o-of u-us. S-Sorry f-for the d-delay.”

Willow trots over and begins building a small campfire by Wilson.

“U-Uh, t-thanks, b-but there's a-already a-a f-fire going?”

“Yeah, but it can’t warm you from here. Also, I'm sorry you have to hear this from me and not Maxwell, but take off your clothes.”

Wilson blushes. “W-W-What? N-No!” He turns on Abigail. “A-And _y-you_ stop s-snickering, y-young lady!”

Willow dusts off her hands. “There we go, nice and toasty.” She hands Wilson a Thermal Stone. “At _least_ take your shirt off and let that dry. And we should probably get something for your brain if you can still hear Abbs.”

“Already on it, Willow.” Warly hurries over with a cup of Soothing Tea. “And to warm your bones, as well.” He looks at Wilson’s Skeleton. “Not those ones.”

Wilson chuckles. “T-Thanks, W-Warly. A-At l-least y-you c-could m-make delicious Bone Bullion o-out of me?”

Warly gapes at him in abject horror.

“J-Joking, j-joking! R-Relax!”

“W-What would. . .” Warly still can’t quash his incredulity. “What would a Wilson broth even _taste_ like?”

“Science.”

“Science.”

“Science.”

“Science.”

“Nerd.”

“P-Pork.”

 _Everyone_ now gapes at Wilson.

“I m-mean, science.”

Silence.

“. . .n-no one’s heard of ‘long pig?’ R-Really?”

“. . .Actually,” Wickerbottom tentatively cuts in, “I've read collections of letters from missionaries in Fiji, where cannibalism remains commonplace. The natives purportedly refer to cooked human flesh as _puaka balava,_ or ‘long pig,’ as opposed to actual swine, which is _puaka dina,_ or ‘real pig.’ I've. . .heard. . .the taste of human flesh is comparable to pork. So Wilson would. . .technically be. . .correct.”

Warly is now completely pale. He signs the cross over himself. “God help us all. I. . .I need to sit down.”

Wickerbottom stands. “I think I shall brew Mr. Warly some tea, this time. Would anyone else care for some?”

All hands shoot into the air. Though Wendy and Webber don’t seem particularly bothered.

Warly sits down on the log beside Wilson, holding his head in his hands.

“I m-mean. . .I w-wouldn’t be offended if—”

Warly covers Wilson’s mouth with a hand. _“S'il te plaît, arrête de parler maintenant, tu rends tout ça pire encore.”_

 _“À v-vos ordres,”_ comes the muffled reply.

Wilson huddles near the temporary fire Willow had made, removing his waistcoat and shirt and wringing them out.

Warly can’t help but snicker beside him, despite his earlier perturbation. _“Si pâle.”_

“ _You’re_ pasty.” Wilson shakes his hair like a dog, and Warly shields himself from the flung moisture, laughing.

“. . .Yöu knöw, I expected yöu tö be hairier.”

Wilson blushes, immediately moving to cover himself.

“Oh, don’t tease him! You look fine, _mon ami_.”

“No, I'm with Wigfrid on this one.” Willow walks over to inspect. “Looks like manscaping to me.”

Wilson and Warly bear the same look of confusion.

“Looks like _what_?”

“Looks like _what_?”

“ _Manscaping_. You know, grooming? Plucking your eyebrows, waxing, stuff like that? Stuff hoity-toity rich guys like Maxwell probably do?”

Wilson’s face darkens another three shades.

“. . .stuff that a blue-blooded nerd. . .apparently does. . .?”

Warly looks at Wilson in amusement.

“. . .Shut up, Warly.”

“I said nothing! Here.” Warly removes his own shirt and vest. “Now we're even.”

“Oh! Are we _all_ getting nakey, now!?”

“. . .Leave the Rain Coat on, Webber.”

“Oooh!” Willow grins, rubbing through the swath of tightly-coiled curls on the now-blushing Warly’s chest. “So manly! Our chef is quite the dish!”

 _“Willow!”_ Wilson slaps her hand away. “Will you stop molesting the man!?”

“He doesn’t seem to mind.”

“That’s because he’s too nice to tell you to quit!”

“The curse grows ever stronger.”

Everyone looks to Wendy.

“Heehee.”

“Oh, jeez.” Willow pulls back and buries her face in her hands. “Sorry about that, Warly. The Higgsbury-Carter Curse is turning us all into thirsty bitches.”

“I may be a bit superstitious, but even _I_ didn’t quite buy the idea of a curse. Now I am starting to wonder, however.”

“Okay, can someone _please_ fill me in on this supposed ‘curse?’ And how I seemingly factor into it?”

 _The running joke,_ Wes signs, _is that your attraction to. . . **him** is infecting everyone. As if all are under a spell._

Wilson groans.

 _It started because Woodie became flustered when Wigfrid started feeling his muscles._ Wes rolls his eyes, casting a sidelong glance at the strongman next to him. _I mean. . .they’re not **that** impressive._

_. . .Ah. Now I have been cursed. Good job, Wilson._

“How is that _my_ fault!? You act like I'm just releasing sexual chemosignals like spores everywhere I go! Do I look like a Bee?”

“No, you look like a very un-manly shrimp.”

“Oh, shut UP, Willow!”

“I do not agree with tiny torchlady.” Wolfgang tears the top of his unitard, baring a smooth, albeit extremely muscular, chest. “Worry not, tiny egghead man! Manliness requires not copious hair-fur!”

Wes' eyes look like they’re about to pop out of his head.

“Okay, I'm getting nakey, too.” Webber unbuttons his little Rain Coat. “But just a little bit.”

 _“Stars and atoms.”_ Wilson clasps an exasperated hand to his brow. “It’s a good thing Wickerbottom’s got that Forget-Me-Lot tea brewing, because _you are all completely insane._ ”

“And whose fault is that, dummy? We all had to watch you bleed to death because _you_ went bonkers and started getting all Maxwellian on us. And we've spent the last hour staring at your stupid Skeleton because no one wants to touch it. Not even Wendy!”

“It is. . .a little different when it is a friend.”

Wilson looks ashamed, now.

“Ah. . .right. Sorry. I. . . _did_ say I would explain.” He pulls a Hammer from his abandoned Piggyback and begins breaking down his Skeleton into Bone Shards. “I was. . .upset. For obvious reasons. One being that I put everyone in danger. _Again._ ”

Wickerbottom returns with the tea, and systematically pours everyone a cup. Seeing Wilson’s grim expression, she does not interrupt—though she’s clearly confused by several of the men's shirtless-ness.

“Abby says I worry too much. And she’s right. I've always been a little on the. . .neurotic side. Nothing ever goes right here; you all know that as well as I do. And it’s hard to relax when you’re just constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Once he’s finished, he stuffs the Shards and Hammer into the pack and takes his seat. He takes a sip of tea, sets it down, and begins signing as he continues. It must be hard to hear through the rain, he belatedly realizes, and it couldn’t hurt to get into the habit of “translating" while he talks.

“I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to hurt. So I ate a few mushrooms and went Hound hunting. I managed to capture one alive for experimentation. I felt much better afterwards. . .for a bit. But needless to say I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly by the time I came over to see what everyone was up to.”

“No wonder you looked so messed up.” Willow’s voice is soft, sympathetic. “Dumb nerd.”

“I know. I'm sorry. It was while I was dying that I realized. . .Maxwell’s not the problem. _I'm_ the common denominator in this equation. The first time I kissed Maxwell, I was suffering from insanity. Undergoing that strange personality shift where I broke Maxwell’s nose? Driven insane by Blue Caps and a Treeguard. Killing myself to revive Abigail the day I found Webber? Insane from digging in the Graveyard. Yesterday’s ‘exorcism?’ I’d spent the night before in Maxwell’s tent, looking through some. . .pretty dark stuff. Then Charlie decided to taunt us both with her little notes. I didn’t sleep much on top of that, and. . .I get crazy when I don’t sleep. Crazi _er_. Then with Willow getting hurt, and Wes showing up. . .I guess I just started cracking. Even with the tea and soup, it just wasn’t enough when I was already running at a deficit.

It wasn’t enough to fight the pull of the Throne.”

“If I may. . .you are saying the Throne left an indelible mark on you—which is to be expected—and are postulating that extreme duress and lapses in sanity are exacerbating its effects?”

“Correct.”

“And coupled with your easily-agitated nature. . .it’s a recipe for disaster.”

“. . .Yes.”

“You said you could hear T̸̢̡̲̱̥͕͍̲̬̿͐͛̌̈́h̴͔͍̝͍̱͍͒̉̓̄͛̈́͝ẹ̸̛͉̗̓͐̀̿̈́̇͌̒̓ͅm̷̡͍̟̙̟̲͕̹̣̖̲̯̋̓̎̊̍̂͊͐̍͘͜͠͝ the night you attacked Maxwell.” Warly touches his arm. “Do you hear them every time your sanity dips below a certain threshold?”

“Yes.”

Warly’s grip tightens. “Then. . .why? Why would you intentionally go mad when you know how easily T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ can manipulate you?”

“. . .because I'm tired, Warly. I just get so tired of fighting, sometimes. Fighting monsters, fighting T̸̢̡̲̱̥͕͍̲̬̿͐͛̌̈́h̴͔͍̝͍̱͍͒̉̓̄͛̈́͝ẹ̸̛͉̗̓͐̀̿̈́̇͌̒̓ͅm̷̡͍̟̙̟̲͕̹̣̖̲̯̋̓̎̊̍̂͊͐̍͘͜͠͝, fighting myself. And Maxwell. . .he’s tired, too. He’s _so_ tired. More than I am. He tries to hide it—and we're both glad to be free, don’t get me wrong—but it’s crushing, sometimes.”

“. . .yöu’ve böth been carrying this burden för some time. I think I understand, nöw. What draws yöu böth tögether.”

Wilson smiles bitterly. “I suppose there’s a Higgsbury-Carter curse, after all.” He dresses in his now-dry garb. “I think. . .maybe I should just leave the camp.”

**_““WHAT!?””_ **

“You can’t leave, you jerk!”

“We need you here, Mr. Wilson!”

“Science man must stay!”

_Don’t be ridiculous!_

“Don’t be a fool, scientist!”

_“OoOooOo!”_

“You're our doc, bud!”

“We require yöur wisdöm!”

“That is crazy-talk, _mon ami!_ ”

_“I will not allow it.”_

Wilson stands, fists clenched. “You can’t just ‘not allow it!’ This is _my_ camp! I’m not a child, and you’re not my nan—”

_CRACK._

Wilson reels, bringing a hand to his stinging cheek.

“. . .Did you just. . . _slap_ me?”

“ _Oh, shit,_ ” he can hear Willow hiss to Wendy. “Wickerbottom’s _pissed_.”

“Mr. Higgsbury. You are a _terrible_ chess player.”

“. . .What?”

She enfolds him in her arms, pulling him close.

“Foolish boy. Haven’t you heard of chess blindness? ‘The failure of a player to see a good move or danger that should normally be considered obvious.’ You are letting your emotions cloud your judgement, and are about to make a very serious blunder.” She strokes a weathered old hand through his hair. “I know you can survive on your own. But we cannot survive without you. Let us help lighten your load. Yours _and_ Maxwell’s.”

“But, Ms. Wickerbottom, I attacked Willow—!”

“And you immediately treated her whilst hemorrhaging to death. I was _there,_ scientist.”

“But you said—!”

“I know what I said. You've paid your dues already.”

“But the Throne! And the Shadows—!”

“Do you _really_ think we cannot handle a few Shadows by now? I think it good practice for whatever our new Queen decides to throw at us. She is surely formulating more sinister machinations as we speak, no doubt.”

“But I’m not. . .I'm not even a _good_ scientist.”

“My dear Wilson.” She gives him a tight squeeze. “You are an _excellent_ scientist. And a talented linguist. And a skilled surgeon. And a sweet boy. You just have a few. . .eccentricities, like the rest of us.”

Wilson buries his head in her bosom, trembling.

“And that is why you must stay. Because in addition to all that you are, you are, above all, a dear friend to us all. And Maxwell needs you, though he may never admit it.” She rocks Wilson slowly, as she would a child. “I never told you I was widowed, did I?”

He knew, but she had never told him. Wilson shakes his head.

“It was because of my grief that I completely threw myself into my work. All but living at the library in which I worked was preferable to coming home to an empty house, even with a darling kitty for company. Refusing treatment for so severe a case of insomnia that I can no longer recall when last I'd slept was preferable to waking in an empty bed. I was so distraught that I was willing to sacrifice _anything_ just to speak with him once more. . .and subsequently divulged that information to the wrong gentleman against my better judgment.”

_You know the price of revival as well as I do, Ms. Wickerbottom._

“I understand, my boy. When you'd rather numb yourself with suspicious fungi and questionable experimentation than face your pain. When it is far easier to hate than to let oneself love.

You are stronger than you think. And though the path ahead is long and treacherous, you've come too far to turn back now.”

Wilson can only nod into her chest.

“I know the agony of never again being able to express affection for the one of whom you are so fond. So let us find a solution. Together.”

Wilson nods again.

“Abigail keeps saying something about poison curing poison. I am. . .unclear as to what that means.”

“The principle of _similia similibus curantur_? Is that part of what you were discussing with her earlier?”

Another nod.

“Have another cup of tea, my boy. Then take a deep breath, and share with us your theorems.” She brings her pursed lips, creased with age, to his ear to add slyly, “and there are other things that can be done without the use of one's mouth, you know.”

Wilson pulls back, though he keeps his now-red face hidden. “Ohoho,” Wickerbottom chortles, tousling his hair, “you’re so young!”

Wilson takes a deep breath through his hands.

“. . .I have a confession to make, Ms. Wickerbottom.”

“Oh? What is it, dear?”

“I _am_ terrible at chess.”

Wickerbottom gently pries his hands away. “Your knowledge of the game is quite impressive, regardless.”

“. . .Good theories, poor execution. Story of my life.”

“Wilson. Who built Maxwell’s Door?”

“. . .I did.”

“And freed him from the Throne?”

“. . .I did.”

“In spite of the challenges he gave you.”

“. . .Yes.”

“Five, if memory serves. Each more difficult than the last, and to be completed consecutively, without reprieve?”

“. . .That’s. . .correct.”

“And you succeeded, through strength of will. You put theory to action quite well, then.”

“I. . .suppose.”

“Maxwell had much to say about you, you know. A brash young scientist, easily discouraged and with no follow-through, with more confidence than his ability warrants, chosen because his delusions of grandeur facilitated easy manipulation. He was both baffled and furious you somehow managed to defy all of his expectations. And dare I say. . .proud?

He put his faith in you then, albeit for different reasons than present. Don’t make a fool of him now. Especially when he can do that quite well on his own.”

_My absolute favourite pawn._

“Alright.” Wilson takes another deep breath. “Alright. But how can you be so sure about how Maxwell feels?”

“If there’s one thing an old librarian knows how to do, my boy,” she lowers her spectacles to meet his eyes with a smile, “it is read between the lines.”

□■□■□■□■

Webber is back in Wilson’s lap, Warly is no longer naked from the waist up, and everyone has a fresh cup of tea. The rains should both speed up Forget-Me-Lot growth as well as increase their yield, Wilson reasons, so the rate at which they were burning—or brewing—through them shouldn’t be an issue. Berries grew back extra-quickly during Monsoon Season, so he sees no reason why this shouldn’t apply to the other crops. Plus he had been perfecting some new fertilizing techniques in the hopes of building up their food stores after this past Winter.

“Field botany isn't my specialty. . .but it's growing on me,” he had told an unamused Maxwell, who had simply dropped his Garden Hoe and walked away.

Wilson sighs.

“Drink your teeeeeeea,” Webber insists, tugging on his arm. “You hafta take your medicine or you won’t feel better.”

“Yes, yes. You’re right, Dr. Webber.” Wilson tousles his head fur, and the child chitters happily. “You are absolutely right.”

Something was nagging at him, however.

“. . .Webber. . .why aren’t you afraid of me?”

The child tilts his head. “Should I be?”

“. . .You saw what happened to Willow. And Maxwell, several times now.”

“Hmm.” Webber considers. “But you hate spiders, and you've never tried to hurt us.”

“. . .I suppose. . .”

“And you stopped Mr. Maxwell from killing us in the Graveyard, remember? Even though we were hugging your face really hard.”

“. . .You remember that?”

“Of course! And even when you were acting spooky, you were still nice and said you would never let Mr. Maxwell hurt us again.”

_But I won’t let him turn a single chitinous fiber on your head, I can promise you that._

“. . .and you made Mr. Maxwell look so. . .sad. We didn’t know he could be anything but grumpy or mad.”

Wilson sinks.

_Look at him. Really look at him. Does that look like an evil villain to you? Because that looks like a broken, powerless old man to me._

“So we thought, if he can make Mr. Maxwell feel feelings, he must be a good person.”

“. . .I think that just means I'm an insensitive jerk.”

“Maybe sometimes? But you’ve been making Mr. Maxwell laugh a lot, too. And not in the scary way. We only ever heard his scary laugh until recently. So I know I was right.” Webber grins up at him. “You can trust us. We're a doctor.”

Wilson doesn’t trust himself to speak. He hugs Webber tightly to his chest, instead.

“We love you, Mr. Wilson.”

“I-I. . .I love you, Webber.”

_I'll never experiment on another Spider again._

“Oh my God. You two better stop being so cute _this instant,_ or—” Willow sniffs, biting her lip. “I-I am g-gonna be _so mad._ ”

Oh, right. The others.

One day he’d learn to not have a private conversation out in the open. One day.

Wilson just nestles his cheek into Webber’s fur. He can already feel his mind starting to fuse its broken pieces back together.

“Are you gonna talk to Mr. Maxwell tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Can we come too?”

“Of course.”

“Abigail and I would like to tag along, if you'll permit us.”

“Yes, that’s fine by me.”

“And I'll come, too. He can never resist my ability to annoy the crap out of him until he acknowledges my existence. Just in case he decides he’s too busy moping for company.”

“That’s. . .actually a good point. I'll try to talk to him, but he’s probably not very chatty right now.”

“Will you help us write him a note in case he doesn’t want to talk to us?”

“I'd be delighted. I think I have some Papyrus and a Feather Pencil in my pack. . .”

“Actually, that’s a good idea, Webber. I think Abby and I will write a note as well. Have you any extra paper, Wilson?”

“I do. Need a pencil?”

“I have one. Oh, Willow, would you care to borrow it when I am finished? So that you may continue to annoy Uncle in print?”

“Not a bad idea, Wenders. Hey, nerd, toss me a sheet too, will ya?”

“Heh, alright, alright. But you'll have to come over here, because Webber is likely not moving anytime soon.”

“You’re warm and comfy!”

“You heard him. I'm warm and comfy.”

Willow and Wendy huddle under an Umbrella and trot over for their respective sheets of Papyrus before scurrying back to their seats. Willow begins miming writing a letter.

“‘Dear asshole. . .’”

“ _Ms. Willow. . ._ ”

Wendy snickers. “Quite a salutation. Perhaps not entirely unwarranted. . .”

“Look at you, being all sassy today! Have you been drinking Abby's Sass Juice?”

Wendy looks amused. “‘Sass Juice?’ I think that is a thing you made up. Although. . .that gives me an idea.”

“An idea? Uh-oh.” Willow pauses. “Oh, sorry, I'm used to reacting to Wilson. Lemme try again.” She clears her throat. “An idea? For what?”

“The dark arts. And crafts.”

Wilson tilts his head. “What, you mean like. . .potions or something?”

“Precisely.”

“Hmm. Should probably run the magic by Maxwell, make sure you’re not running afoul of anything _too_ sinister. Especially if you’re using Fuel. I know you’re a fine young lady with a good head on her shoulders and more grown up than some of the adults here, and I don’t want to treat you like a child who doesn’t know any better, but the idea of a young’un experimenting with that stuff makes me. . .uneasy.

But I will gladly assist with the mixing of dangerous chemicals. Setting one’s hair on fire and spilling highly corrosive acid on oneself is how we learn, children.”

“Miss Wendy, _please_ do not take the harebrained scientist’s advice to heart.”

“Pardon me, Ms. Wickerbottom, but I thought I was an _excellent_ scientist. You wouldn’t _lie_ to me, would you?”

Wickerbottom grins. “Don’t make me come over there, young man.”

“In all seriousness, my offer to help stands.”

Wendy smiles. “I appreciate it. I shall come to you if I require assistance. Although, on the subject of dangerous chemicals, you've yet to share your poison-cures-poison theory with us.”

Wilson snaps his fingers. “Ah, that’s right! Okay, so I had an epiphany three Green Caps in and elbow-deep in gore. You know how we use Spider Glands and Ashes to create a disinfectant paste? Those are actually venom glands. Err. . .” He pats the child’s head. “Sorry, Webber.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Wilson. It’s a Spider-eat-Spider world out there.”

“But my point is that we use venom to heal our wounds. And as I was telling Abby earlier, if you are ever bitten by a venomous snake—DO NOT TRY TO SUCK OUT THE POISON, THAT DOESN’T WORK AND MAKES EVERYTHING WORSE—you must immediately administer antivenin. An antidote made of the exact type of venom you were infected with. I've heard it works for some spider bites, too, actually. They were researching that in Australia right before I. . .well. Came here.” Wilson cups his chin in his hand, looking wistful. “I wonder what they found out.

I also heard talk of using molds and fungus to treat infections, kind of like how we use Blue Caps’ medicinal properties to heal, despite its other adverse effects. Which as we know, can be mitigated with a Cooked Green Cap or some sweets in a pinch. Oooooh, that gives me an idea!”

“Oh no.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh no.”

“Öh nö.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh no.”

Wilson scowls. “Thanks for the support, guys.”

“I believe in you, Mr. Wilson.”

“Thank you, Webber. _Anyway,_ my point is that based on what’s happened to me so far, the Throne-y parts come out when my brain gets too fried, which is then exacerbated by Maxwell and I, uh. . .”

“Swapping spit.”

“. . .thank you Willow, as always, for your tact. But I don’t think it’s _just_ him. Dark Petals and Night Lights could probably trigger the same reaction. The Codex did, when I read from it.

The problem is that he’s the most _potent_ source of Fuel. He literally needs it to survive. He _bled_ Fuel when I broke his nose. For those still conscious last night, he started _vomiting_ Fuel and blood in the middle of his incantations. I wasn’t quite cognizant at the time, but that level of concentration is _really_ impressive. I almost wish I could've seen him in action. . .”

“. . .Uh, Wilson?” Woodie chuckles. “Why are you blushin', bud?”

“Y-YES W-WELL ANYWAY. Abby reminded me because I was, again, not quite aware, but at one point he. . .sucked some of the Shadows out of me?”

“Oh, yeah, I remember that!” Willow laughs, clapping her hands. “You said you hated him, then he said he hated you too and kissed you right on the lips. It was the craziest thing ever. Not as good as the razzle-dazzle kiss, but very fitting for you two.”

“It was actually rather sweet, I thought. In a very warped, twisted kind of way. Which is just the sort of thing I can appreciate. Even if it _was_ my uncle.”

“S-Sorry, Wendy.”

“It is more the prospect of him expressing intimacy on principle that leaves me a little. . .disturbed. Saying you hated each other was actually a relief? It feels much more. . .natural. And not like I am trapped in some strange fever dream.”

“. . .I suppose it _would_ be jarring to see Maxwell being uncharacteristically affectionate, whether you were related to him or not.”

“Question. Have you, uh. . .” Willow leans over to cover Wendy’s ears, and Wilson takes that as his cue to cover Webber’s. . .whatevers. “Have you actually _done_ anything with Maxwell?”

“Wi-Wi-wh-wh-wh—what the hell kind of question is that!? None of your business!”

“So no, then. I only ask because you’d probably swallow, like a good little pawn.”

_“MS. WILLOW.”_

The other Survivors are making a valiant effort not to laugh. And failing.

“I could not hear any of that,” Wendy announces to the others, “but I assume it was something lewd and lascivious. Also I have never seen a man turn purple before. How fascinating. Please continue, Willow. I would like to see if his head explodes.”

“And you puking Shadows was bad enough. I'd hate to see them start coming out of. . .other orifices.”

_“MS. WILLOW!”_

But Wickerbottom is laughing now, as are the others. The difference is that the old bat thinks she is being quite clever by doing so silently and hiding her face in a handkerchief. Most are in tears. Paragons of maturity.

Wilson carefully removes Webber from lap and curls up into a ball on the ground.

“Mr. Wilson? Are you okay?”

“Please bite me again, Webber. I want to die.”

“O-Okay, o-okay, _tout le monde,_ enough! S-Stop torturing the poor man!”

“He says, while laughing so hard tears are rolling down his face,” Willow quips.

Webber protectively curls up atop Wilson’s hunched back and _screeches,_ much like the other Spiders do when provoked. The sound must evoke a fear response in the Survivors—how many of their combined deaths occurred from running afoul of a Spider Den or three?—and the laughter stops immediately. Wolfgang in particular shrieks and grabs the mime next to him, who remains as deadpan as ever. Or rather, deadpan _now._ The running makeup beneath his eyes tells a different story.

“. . .I guess Wilson’s got himself a little attack-spider noa, eh?” Woodie raises his hands in defense. “Take it easy, little buddy. We're done teasin'. _Ain’t that right, Willow?_ ”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm done.”

Webber crosses his (main) arms. “You didn’t like teasing when it happened to _you,_ Mr. Woodie.”

Woodie blushes, hanging his shaggy head. “Yeah, yer right, little buddy.”

“And you too, Ms. Wigfrid.”

“Yes. . .yöu are cörrect, many-legged öne.” Wigfrid looks just as ashamed.

 _“Now.”_ Webber holds his little head up haughtily, standing upon Wilson’s back like a soapbox. He affects the best authoritative voice he can, mimicking the most authoritative person he knows. _“Are we calm?”_

_Now. Are we calm? No voices? No T̴̩͎̦̹̳̄͆h̸̨̹̮̬̣̆̃ȇ̷͔͉̃́̽m̵̦̰̝̜̲͂͋?”_

The Survivors nod, stupified.

Webber hops off Wilson, his point made. Wilson raises his head, looking just as stunned. Webber smiles and pats his head.

“T-Thank you.”

He stands, brushing himself off, and sits back down on the log seat. He pats his lap, and Webber climbs back up.

“Now, ah, ahem. Where was I?”

“Sucking Shadows out of you,” Willow reminds him.

“Right, yes. Which lends further credence to my theory. _Similia similibus curentur._ Even though homeopathy isn’t _real science,_ ” Wilson mutters in disgust. “But my point stands.”

“So. . .” Willow scratches her head. “You’re saying Maxwell is poisoning you, or at least drawing out the Throne-y parts that are already in there, but he’s also the ‘cure.’ Am I right so far?”

“More or less.”

“Okay. That’s great and all, but _how_ do we go about curing you?”

“That’s. . .” Wilson steeples his fingers together nervously, “what I wanted to discuss with you all.”

“Uh-oh.”

_Uh-oh._

“Uh-öh.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Oh, goodness.”

“Oh, jeez.”

“Oh, dear.”

_“Oh la vache.”_

Wilson clears his throat. “Ms. Wickerbottom, you’re quite well-read, obviously. There was a certain medical journal from 1860 about antivenin research I remember reading a while back, have you seen it? Since you know about Fiji's cannibalistic practices from sources around that same time, I assume you'd know about that, as well.”

“Do you mean the issue of the Madras Quarterly Medical Journal, wherein Surgeon-Major Edward Nicholson wrote of witnessing a Burmese snake-catcher inoculating himself with cobra venom? That was November 18 _70_ , my boy.” She pauses for a moment as her own words sink in. “Oh, I see! You want to build up a tolerance to the Fuel!”

“Except. . .the side effects. They’re not just mine to deal with. You see the problem.”

Wickerbottom sits pensively, hands folded over her mouth.

“As I said before, I think we can handle a few Shadows by now. The combat experience cannot hurt, either. New monsters are bound to be cropping up soon enough.”

“You know, I think I'm game as well. Lucy loves a good fight, don’tcha, old gal? And you know Wig's chompin' at the bit to get some spear action in.”

“Cöuld nöt have said it better myself, friend Wöödie.”

“Wolfgang is. . .not so frightened. It is to help new friends. Friends is important.”

_You did rescue me from permanent entrapment. Let me join the fight as well._

“I would welcome the opportunity to hone my newfound skills.”

“OoOOoo!”

“I may be a chef, but I'll have you know I'm also an accomplished butcher. I cannot wait to show you my knife mastery.”

“I know I give you guff, but you’re my best friend, Wilson. I'll always be here to light a fire under your ass. To turn a phrase.”

“I'll join too, Mr. Wilson! I can get my Spider friends to help!”

“E-Everyone. . .” Wilson smiles widely, closing his eyes to hide the film of tears forming over them. “T-Thank you. So much.”

“Aww, come on, nerd. Don’t cry!” Willow runs to hug him. “We're here for you. Plus old stick-legs needs Fuel to survive, right? This could be a good way to keep a steady supply going. Those Shadows dropped a ton when we killed ‘em. And we'll need more if Wenders wants to do her little Ectobiology thing.”

“Now that I think on it. . .”

_We may actually have a potential practitioner of white magic in our little motley crew._

_That Flower is quite the enchantment. I sense Fuel, but also a sort of white magic I cannot place._

“. . .I may not need Fuel after all.”

Wilson breathes a sigh of relief.

“So what do you need, then, Wenders?”

“There’s a sort of. . .otherworldly flower I've found in the Graveyards before, called a Mourning Glory. I used one before, along with the Fuel, to enchant Abigail’s Flower. I did not think anything of it at the time, since anyone can create basic magic recipes with a Prestihatitator, but I. . .didn’t use one. The spell just kind of. . .came to me.”

“. . .Wow. I guess you _are_ a little mage.”

“I. . .” Wendy blushes. “I do not know about _that._ ”

“On the subject of enchanted items, and forgive me, Wendy dear, for interrupting, but I also use the Fuel for some of my books. Therefore, it could not hurt to have a reliable source, as Willow suggested. However. . .” Willowbottom looks toward Wilson. “I know you are eager to kiss and make-up, as it were, but perhaps hold off on any oral affections until we have time to prepare ourselves accordingly.” She grins at him, now. “I know you are young and virile, but could you give us a few days before you proceed with, ah, ‘building your tolerance?’”

Wilson reddens from the roots of his hair down to his neck. “Y-Yes, I-I can wait.”

“That doesn’t mean you cannot do _anything_ , mind you. Just so long as it doesn’t involve the ingestion of any Fuel. Or via any other. . . _internal_ routes.”

The tittering starts back up again. Wendy sips her tea and pretends not to hear.

“Can we. . . _not_ have this part of the conversation here? Right now? Please?”

“Right, of course. My apologies.”

“You don’t sound particularly contrite, Ms. Wickerbottom.”

Wickerbottom innocently sips her own tea in lieu of a response.

“. . .Anyway, Wendy. These Mourning Glories you mentioned. I've been in the Graveyards tons of times, but I've never seen any flowers. Are they something only you can see?”

“I do not think so. But the Pipspooks carry them.”

“. . .the what?”

“Have you ever seen what looks like a more diminutive Ghost while you were out there?”

Wilson clasps his hands to his cheeks. “Oh, _those_ things! I was wondering what they were! They’re so cute!”

He stops when he sees everyone grinning at him once again.

“Err, I mean. They offend me. As a scientist.”

“They are the spirits of children,” Wendy continues. “They wander around, looking for their Lost Toys. In exchange for assistance in locating these sentimental items, they will offer up Mourning Glories. I believe I may be the only one that can interact with them, given my. . .abilities. They appear rarely, though.”

“Well, let us know if you need help, yeah? I'll let you know if I see any of the little pipsqueaks while I'm around.”

“Thank you, Willow. I appreciate it.”

Webber tugs on Wilson’s waistcoat. “Can we write our letter to Mr. Maxwell, now?”

“Yes, yes. Of course.” He ruffles Webber’s head fur. “Now, what would you like to say?”

“‘Dear asshole, please don’t let Wilson be your bottom bitch for at least three days. Kind regards.’”

**_“MS. WILLOW!”_ **

****

“. . .Never have I longed for the sweet embrace of Death more in my young life.”

“That makes two of us, Wendy,” Wilson sighs. “That makes two of us.”

□■□■□■□■

Later that evening, Willow, Wendy, Abigail, Webber, and Wilson walk to the far side of the camp, armed with rain gear, letters, and a heaping bowl of piping-hot Creamy Potato Purée.

“How do you not burn yourself holding that?”

_“Wilson.”_

“. . .oh, right.”

“Dumbest smart person I know.”

Wendy and Abigail both giggle. Wilson sulks, but raises his Torch to light the way. “I really need to put in some lampposts or something.”

“Didn’t Mr. Maxwell’s Throne Room have lights that turned on by themselves? Maybe we can find some.”

“Lamps that light themselves? Boooooo.”

“Not _everything_ has to be something you can set fire to, Willow.”

“I'mma set fire to _you_ if you don’t shut your yap—wait, is that Maxwell’s Tent? What the hell's wrong with it?”

“What? What are you talking. . .about. . .”

Even in the dim torchlight, they can see the tent is cloaked in a thick shroud of miasma.

 _“Oh no.”_ Wilson runs over. “Maxwell!? Are you—?”

Two Shadow Duelists stand guard outside of the entrance flap to the tent. They draw their swords as soon as they deem Wilson too close.

“What in blazes!? Maxwell!”

The Puppets point their blades at him threateningly. Wilson backs away. “Maxwell, I came to apologize.”

The Puppets remain unmoved.

“Do ya think they’ve gone rogue or something?”

Wilson sighs. “No. Without his input, they just stand there. He's controlling them right now.”

“Ugh. Well, if you won’t talk to Wilson, will you at least talk to us? I got food, and Wendy, Webber, and Abigail have something to give you.”

The Shadow Puppets lower their weapons. Slightly.

“Okay. I'm. . .we're coming in. We won’t be long.”

Willow tentatively approaches the flap and pulls it open.

_“. . .Holy shit.”_

The entire inside of the tent is filled with dark mist, hanging in the air like hazy cigar smoke. Willow wasn’t even sure Nightmare Fuel had a _scent,_ but it assaults her nose all the same. The subtle sweetness of wildflowers, of woody stems and soft petals—and the overpowering scent of decay. Just being close to it makes her cough.

“Willow! Are you—!?” But as soon as Wilson makes a move, one of the Duelists brings down its sword. Wilson jumps back just in time as the blade cleaves past the side of his head, sending a small clump of his hair floating to the ground.

“You’re not. . .you’re not messing around, are you.”

The other four carefully enter.

“Oh. . .Uncle. . .”

Maxwell is lying facedown in his Fur Roll. He does not move nor speak.

“Mr. Maxwell. . .? Are you okay?”

He says nothing.

“Okay, well. . .Warly made you some mashed potatoes, since I know you like them a lot. I'm just gonna set it down right by you, okay?”

No response.

“Okay, then.” Willow sets down the bowl, then reaches to pat his shoulder—but quickly draws her hand back. _“Ow! Shit!”_

“Willow!” Wendy touches her back. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, that. . .holy shit, that _burned._ Touching him actually _burned._ Nngh. . .” She presses her hand down on the Poultice covering her wounds, wincing. “Don’t. . .don’t touch him. My arm is _throbbing_ now.”

“We shall leave our things and go, then.” Wendy drops her, Willow, and Webber’s letters by the bowl. “Goodnight, Uncle.”

“Mr. Maxwell. . .”

Wendy takes Webber’s hand. “Come along, Webber. He does not want to be disturbed.”

The four hurriedly exit to find Wilson still standing near the Shadow Duelist that had tried to attack him, his head bowed and his shoulders slumped. The Duelist has not lowered its weapon.

“Wilson. . .?”

“I'm. . .just going to go to bed. Goodnight.” He hands Webber his Torch. “See you in the morning.”

“Mr. Wilson, wait!”

But the Tent flap is already fluttering behind him.

“. . .Let’s just go, guys.”

Wilson sets his things in the corner, undresses, and pops two more Green Caps in his mouth before crawling atop his Straw Roll. He curls up, facing away from Maxwell’s Tent, and pulls the Silk sheet over himself.

And the sound of the rain eventually lulls him to sleep.


	9. I Adjust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Maxwell:**  
>  Miss Sow's Floral Arrangements _(Hamlet)_ \- "Every breastpocket needs a fresh rose."  
> Miss Sow's Floral Arrangements (burning) _(Hamlet)_ \- "I'll have to get my roses elsewhere."  
> Orchid Plantholder _(Hamlet)_ \- "I prefer roses."  
> Magic Flower _(Hamlet)_ \- "I do still prefer roses."  
> Rose _(DST)_ \- "This is wrong."
> 
> □■□■□■□■
> 
> "Where the dragoon once stored its feelings."  
> \--Wilson inspecting a Dragoon Heart, _Shipwrecked_
> 
> "Hearts only bring pain anyway."  
> \--Maxwell on the Dragoon Heart, _WAIT MAXWELL HONEY NO_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDIT: NEW GRAPHIC VIOLENCE WARNING, READ THIS CHAPTER WITH CAUTION**
> 
> THIS TOOK FOREVER 
> 
> SORRY FOR THE WAIT
> 
> I HOPE IT'S WORTH IT
> 
> I WORKED REALLY HARD ON IT
> 
> I CALL THIS "THE WIL CHAPTER" BECAUSE IT'S ALL WILS, ALL THE TIME
> 
> SHOUTOUT TO BEWEME FOR BEING ON THE SAME WAVELENGTH 
> 
> READ THEIR NEW FIC IT'S HERE: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29532579
> 
> ❤ U ALL 💋S MWAH ❌⭕❌⭕

Everything was dark.

Why was everything dark?

Wilson steps forward. He was surrounded by void, nothing but dense inky blackness as far as the eye could see. So black it absorbed the light. But he could still see himself just fine, he realizes, as he holds a hand out in front of him.

Another tentative step. There was nothing there, nothing but black, and just trying to will his scientific mind to grasp it was giving him a headache. But it felt solid beneath his feet, whatever it was. Which was nothing.

Summoning his courage, he begins to walk.

It was making him dizzy, straining his eyes to see nothing. Trying to perceive something that didn’t exist. It was starting to make him feel a little nauseated, as well.

Perhaps if he closed his eyes. Concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Listened to the sound his heels made as they struck the void.

This void wasn’t the same as the Void. The Void was nothing, but it was a flimsy and gray kind of nothing. Dull and drab and dusty. He had never _seen_ it, exactly, but he could feel it. When he lost consciousness, when he died. It _felt_ gray. Dull and drab like the Throne Room, where no color existed beyond gray. And dark, if dark was a color. Wilson wasn’t really into art—he could appreciate the work that went into it, it just wasn’t his cup of tea—but he was _pretty_ sure “dark” was not a color. And yet, the Throne Room remained the color dark.

He. . . _really_ didn’t want to think about the Throne right now. It was making him feel _very_ unwell. And he was already dizzy and nauseated and his head ached. Purely psychosomatic, he was sure, but if he didn’t know better he’d think he was coming down with influenza.

Though eating those Green Caps before bed likely didn’t help.

Clack, clack, clack. The nothing sounded a bit like the checkered marble tile in the Throne Room, actually. How strange.

_Ugh, stop thinking about the Throne! But what even is this place? It’s so dark, but. . .I seem to be safe from Charlie, here. I can’t hear her. Or feel her. Or. . .smell her?_

That was the strangest thing about her most recent attack. Prior to taking the Throne, he had never _once_ smelled roses before she struck. He had never even _seen_ a rose in The Constant until recently. Perhaps that was a sign the land was changing under her rule.

He was no botanist, but he had been _so certain_ Maxwell had always worn a poppy of some sort on his lapel. But he remembers the vase in his study, and his final performance. He and Charlie had both been wearing roses.

And when Charlie freed him from the Throne—the _real_ Charlie—she'd been wearing a rose in her hair. Even though there had been no roses in Maxwell’s world.

_There had been no roses in Maxwell’s world._

He stops short when the realization hits him.

_There had been no roses in Maxwell’s world._

_There had been no roses in Maxwell’s world because he had refused to put them in._

_Because they reminded him of **her.**_

Wilson could not remember if Maxwell had always worn poppies on his lapel. . .because he had started wearing roses again.

. . .Wonderful. Now he feels more ill than before.

_I was doing some research on the extent of Maxwell and Charlie’s relationship last night, and—_

_Ööööh, Wilsön! Dö nöt tell me yöu are jealous!_

Wilson scowls. Why would he be jealous? How asinine.

He realizes he had never really thought about the magician’s sexuality. Wilson had just sort of _assumed_ the King had been an old queen. He was far too fashionable to be anything but.

. . .Not that Wilson was one to talk.

But. . .what if he _did_ love women as well as men? That wasn’t a problem in and of itself. The problem was that the woman he may have loved—loved _romantically_ —was still _here. And in charge,_ no less. And she still had the Puppetmaster by _his_ strings, even after all these years.

She had _always_ had him by the strings.

_Charlie_

**Charlie**

** CHARLIE **

This wouldn’t be bothering him so much if Maxwell hadn’t rejected him earlier. Though he supposes he _did_ reject Maxwell first. And. . .after Maxwell had nearly killed himself trying to “exorcise” him, to boot.

After Maxwell had allowed him to hold his hand in front of Willow, Warly, and Wickerbottom.

After Maxwell had initiated a kiss in front of the entire camp to draw the Shadows out of him.

After Maxwell, fading fast, had leaned into the warmth of his touch before passing out in his arms.

After Maxwell had felt comfortable enough to lean against his shoulder as they sat around the fire.

Maxwell had let himself be vulnerable, and Wilson had made him regret it.

Damn it all.

_I really cocked this one up, didn’t I._

But he didn’t remember seeing any miasma around Maxwell’s Tent that afternoon. Perhaps. . .perhaps Maxwell had heard all the things he had been screaming about him while he ripping apart his creations? It would have been hard _not_ to hear, along with the shrieking of a Spider in its death throes or the sound of a Hound being dismembered. Or the manic laughter that had gripped him as he watched what was left of one of Maxwell’s beloved Hounds run off his worktable in a stream of water. One of the creatures Wilson _knew_ he had taken such pride in creating that the scientist had thoroughly eviscerated out of spite. With his own two hands. Until it was nothing but sludge in the mud.

. . .Yes, he can see how Maxwell may have taken umbrage to that.

But. . .would that _really_ have been enough to set him off, though? They had fought off Hounds together numerous times already, most recently almost a week ago. Maxwell had been dismayed the first time he realized they no longer recognized him, but he seemed to have gotten over it relatively quickly. Especially after Wilson had been tasked with removing the teeth that had been embedded into the magician’s leg afterward.

So perhaps that wasn’t it, after all. So what _was_ the tipping point, then, if not Wilson proving to Maxwell that he could never safely drop his guard around the only person he had trusted? If not Wilson openly cursing his name during a mushroom-fueled science bender? Blast it, he swears the answer is staring him right in the face, just out of reach.

_DEVINCTIONIBUS_

_insaniam_

_Enough!_

_Magicae_

_pretiositas_

_ALUCINATION_

_Voces_

_tenebris_

_it's T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊_

_Charlie_

**_Charlie_ **

**_ CHARLIE _ **

**Charlie.**

Charlie must have gotten to him, somehow. Probably with another one of her little nastygrams. No one could get under Maxwell’s skin like she could.

And the last note she’d left drove him to summon _three_ Shadow Duelists—one more than was usually safe, Wilson knew, as Duelists took more out of him than Diggers or Loggers—and completely destroy his sanity in the process. If levels of sanity could be quantified, Maxwell would have been running well into the negatives. And in what was probably the most unhinged state Wilson had ever seen him, he had attacked the greatest reminder of Charlie’s presence—the Florid Postern.

Yes, that had to be it. He had never seen Maxwell leave a _trail_ of Shadow in his wake before then.

He's beginning to think Willow was right. Queen Charlie really _was_ a bitch. And she was keeping him from apologizing, damn it.

Unless. . .she wasn’t _trying_ to keep Maxwell fixated on her, was she? That seemed a little. . .counter-intuitive, based on how much she seemed to despise him. Then again, the two letters he had read from Pre-Night Monster Charlie and the way he had seen her interact with him during their final performance had been giving him a lot of mixed signals.

She had also affectionately tapped Wilson on the nose seconds before freeing him. . .and then attacking him. And if _those_ weren’t mixed signals, well. . .Wilson didn’t know what were, really.

_Maybe when this run is over we can take a little break? My sister said we could use the family cabin up in BC if we want to get away_

That part in particular of Charlie’s last letter had been niggling at the back of his mind for a while. That didn’t seem like something a coworker would offer. A good friend, maybe.

_Or maybe a lover._

**_“I'M NOT JEALOUS!”_ **

He doesn’t even realize he has yelled this until the sound of his own exclamation reaches his ears. And then, it too is absorbed by the darkness.

“I-Is. . .i-is s-someone there?”

Wilson jumps. When shouting into the void—literally—one typically doesn’t anticipate, nor receive, a _response._

“Uh.” _Good answer, Wilson. Way to use that big science-y brain of yours._

“I-I—I'm s-sorry! I-I'll h-have the money n-next week!”

_Wait. . .what?_

Wilson realizes his eyes are still closed. Not that it mattered whether they were open or shut—the nothingness remained.

But now there was a man, sitting on a simple wooden bench and hunched so far forward his head was between his knees. It looked quite uncomfortable a position, especially for a man that tall.

He is clad in. . .purple, it looks like. Wilson doesn’t think he’s ever _seen_ a tuxedo in purple. Long coattails hang out the back of the bench, being nibbled upon by one of The Constant's many horned Rabbits. Several surround him, in fact. He shakes like a leaf, clutching his head in cotton-gloved hands.

“I-I j-just n-need m-more t-time! P-Please d-don’t h-hurt me!”

“I’m not going to hurt you! It's just _me_ , Max—”

The man looks up before Wilson can even get his name out.

“—well?”

“I-I. . .I b-beg your p-pardon?”

_The missing man has yet to be identified, but fellow passengers described him as a tall, nervous fellow with an English accent._

“I-I think you may h-have me c-confused f-for a-another, sir.”

“No. . .”

The man peers at Wilson through large, round spectacles, his entire brow creased with anxiety.

“. . .William. . .Carter?”

“. . .I-I a-am he. H-Have. . .h-have w-we met? Y-You l-look. . .familiar.”

“We have. Um, sort of. Technically. Or, I guess, ah, that is to say. . .” Wilson laughs a little, running a hand through his hair. “Stars, now _I'm_ nervous!”

This seems to relax William somewhat, and he manages a weak, watery smile.

“Wilson P. Higgsbury, gentleman scientist. That’s my name. Except the scientist part, that’s my profession. The Wilson part is my name. So I guess we're both Wils, heh!”

Wilson buries his face in his hands.

_“Stars above, that was completely idiotic.”_

William laughs, and it immediately soothes Wilson’s heart. “Heavens, no! I a-am pleased to make y-your acquaintance, fellow Wil! W-Would y-you, ah. . .

. . .w-would you like to see a magic trick?”

Wilson hesitantly lowers his hands. “I would _love_ to see a magic trick.”

William beams. “Wonderful!” He plucks a Top Hat from the ground(?) beside him and turns it over in his hands. “Behold, an ordinary Top Hat! _But!_ ” He slides out a magic wand from within his sleeve and taps the brim of the hat twice. “When I say the magic wor—ack!”

The Top Hat slips from William's grasp and back on to the ground(?), where it begins to scoot away from him.

“H-Hey! Rrgh, misbehaving thing! C-Come back!”

The horned Rabbit manages to tip over its dapper prison and hops out from beneath it.

Much to William's dismay, the handsome scientist he had been hoping to impress is now doubled over with laughter. Then it is the magician’s turn to bury his face in his hands. “I-I'm a f-failure.”

“Awww, no! You’re not a failure!” Wilson wipes the tears from his eyes and takes a seat next to William, patting him consolingly on the shoulder. “I'm sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. You just need a bit more confidence in yourself, that’s all.”

“Y-You. . .you really t-think so?”

“Absolutely. I've seen it firsthand.”

William lowers his hands to give Wilson a befuddled look. “I-I. . .I d-don’t f-follow?”

“I’ve met your later incarnation. From about fifteen years in the future. He is an expert showman, one of the best I've ever seen. Yeah, he _may_ have dabbled in dark magic and got in _way_ over his head with it, but he just _oozes_ charisma. He’s charming, and roguish, and so _very_ dapper. And none of that has anything to do with the mysterious tome full of strange incantations and formless omniscient abominations made of darkness itself that he always keeps on his person. No, the confidence, the poise, the grace, the showmanship, it’s all him. All _you._ It’s been inside you this whole time.”

William just sort of. . .stares in silent bewilderment for several long moments.

“. . .W-What kind of science have you been _doing,_ sir?”

Wilson gives him a winsome grin. “The mad kind. It’s sort of my _modus operandi_.”

“I-I. . .” William shyly averts his gaze. That smile is just _too much_ for his nerves. “I s-see.”

William is mulling over the politest means of inquiring as to how long his new company has been inhaling chemical fumes to spin a yarn like _that_ when Wilson rests a bent arm on his shoulder, idly toying with his large red bowtie. “Bit of a non-sequitur, but has anyone ever told you that you are positively _adorable?_ ”

“I-I-I—err, a-ah—” William’s face blooms with color, and he sneaks a timid look at the man grinning broadly beside him. “. . .n-n-no?”

“Pity.” Wilson playfully taps William’s nose and lightly strokes a fingertip beneath it. Particularly along the columella nasi, that delicate partition of skin between the nostrils, and around the nares themselves. “Because you are simply _precious_ and anyone who says otherwise is a fool.”

“A-Ah. . .s-sir. . .i-if y-you k-keep d-d-doing t-that. . .I'm g-going to. . .g-going t-to. . .a-ah—!”

Wilson retracts his finger and replaces it with his handkerchief as William sneezes. A deck's worth of playing cards shoot out of his sleeves.

Wilson laughs lightly. “You’re so cute! _How are you so cute!?_ ”

William's face practically glows like hot coals as he tries to hide behind his gloves.

“I just. . .I can’t believe you’re Maxwell. Or you _become_ Maxwell. Or. . .whatever, I don’t know. Nothing makes sense here. Which is funny, as trying to make sense of all the great mysteries of the universe—this universe—is typically my preferred pastime, but you are just—" Wilson gently grasps William around his cuff links and pries his hands away, “—so gosh-darn _cute_ I can’t think straight.”

“Y-Y-You, y-you. . .y-you’re a r-rather _f-forward_ chap, a-aren't you?”

“I've been called that from time to time. As well as ‘brash.’ Perhaps even ‘cheeky’ on occasion. But all I know is you are _doing things_ to me, good sir.” Wilson releases William’s hands and raises his own over the shrinking violet cowering away from him, flexing and curling his fingers in a _very_ _ungentlemanly_ grabbing motion. “And they are making me want to _do things **to you.**_ Of a licentious and concupiscent nature.”

Despite William’s William-ness making concentration difficult, Wilson’s brain has actually been chugging along ceaselessly this entire time—he posits he must be in Maxwell’s own head, deep within his mind where he’s locked William Carter away. And that the only reason Wilson can interact with him at all is because Maxwell is so overwrought that the mental walls he uses to partition the fragments of his mind are breaking down. William was all of Maxwell’s insecurity made manifest, and Wilson had likely left him feeling more than a little insecure after verbally dissecting the Black King in front of an audience of his pawns.

 _When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._ Wilson already knew they were capable of sharing dreams, per Charlie. And the power of the Throne granted the ruler the ability to meddle in the unconscious affairs of others. Though. . .he wasn’t quite sure this was Charlie’s doing, this time. After all, he _did_ enter into a supernatural contract with Maxwell prior to building the Door. The Door that had used his own blood in its creation. So they were already bonded together by blood magic, or. . .something. (Wilson isn’t sure how much of that he actually believes, but the idea of being blood-bonded to Maxwell excited him. Kind of a lot. More than it should a man of science who made his skepticism about Maxwell’s supposed sorcery _quite_ clear.)

But there was one more thing Wilson hadn’t considered until now.

_Yöu’ve böth been carrying this burden för some time. I think I understand, nöw. What draws yöu böth tögether._

He and Maxwell had not only been bound _to_ the Throne—and arguably still were, to an extent—they were bound _by_ the Throne. Or at least, it _felt_ that way, with the way their “poison” seemed to be feeding the other's. And if succumbing to insanity in The Constant was enough to start altering reality itself, when a severe enough psychotic episode could lead one’s hallucinations to start manifesting themselves as physical entities in the world—was the idea of Wilson entering the core of Maxwell's mind via a dream state while both were simultaneously unconscious and suffering low sanity really so outlandish a prospect? He had managed to accidentally communicate with Abigail in an in-between dimension, while suffering some sort of Fuel toxicity, after all.

 _It only half-exists on this plane,_ Maxwell had said of the Obelisks, when viewed in their lowered state. If insanity could do _that,_ then perhaps that’s how he had accomplished that feat.

Wilson really feels like he’s on to something, here.

But like most of his theorems, Wilson couldn’t really prove anything beyond a convoluted chain of reasoning that only made sense to him. But he had a hunch he was right. A _scientific_ hunch.

But the matter at hand. That delicious-looking morsel of a man, that milquetoast little beanpole was still staring at him in trepidation, looking not unlike one of those skittish Rabbits he loved so much.

Would William squeak and squeal and scream like one, too?

Wilson couldn’t wait to find out.

_For science._

“E-Err. . .i-it w-w-was. . .Mr. W-Wilson, w-was i-it n-not? I-I, ah, I-I a-am n-not so s-sure I like w-where t-this i-is g-going. . .”

“Did you know,” Wilson murmurs sweetly, undeterred, “there exists a certain kind of stringbean that has a purple hue? They get their color from a water-soluble vacuolar pigment called anthocyanin. The pH of soil affects how the color is expressed. Acidic soil produces reds and purples, neutral soil produces blues, and alkaline soil produces greens and yellows. Fascinating, don’t you think?”

“O-Oh, w-well, y-yes, I s-suppose, b-but w-w-what d-does t-that h-have t-to do with m-me?”

“I want to be your acidic earth, my little Royal Burgundy bean.” He takes William’s earlobe between his lips and gently tugs, and the magician’s breath hitches. “And I want to _show_ you things. _Terrible, beautiful things._ And I am going to show you through the magic. . . _of science_.” His lips brush William’s ear as he lowers his voice to a whisper. “We’re two sides of the same coin, you and I. And I know you possess a level of curiosity as strong as any scientist worth his salt. Sometimes dangerous, but often _oh-so-rewarding._ ”

William can only watch as the mad scientist at his ear holds up his index finger, moving it slowly from one end of his vision to the other. The magician’s eyes follow as if it were a hypnotist's golden pocket watch. Back and forth, back and forth.

William may not be the most able magician. And perhaps Wilson was right—maybe he _did_ require more confidence. But he would _never_ fall for something so amateur as a hypnosis trick, especially from one not even versed in magic.

And yet, he can feel himself start to relax. Wilson was crazy as a fox, some part of him inexplicably knew. He should be _alarmed, very alarmed,_ that this strange man seemed to know so much about him. But he was just so _earnest_ , so _sincere_ , so _sure of himself_ —he was hard to resist.

And maybe, William thinks. . .maybe he didn’t want to.

“I was a surgeon prior to pursuing the sciences full-time, you know. I am _quite_ well-versed in human anatomy as a result. I know about _everything._

_‘Head, neck, hair, ears, drop and tympan of the ears,_

_Eyes, eye-fringes, iris of the eye, eyebrows, and the waking or sleeping of the lids,_

_Mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, roof of the mouth, jaws, and the jaw-hinges,_

_Nose, nostrils of the nose, and the partition—’”_

William knew of _that_ one. His nose still prickled.

_“‘—cheeks, temples, forehead, chin, throat, back of the neck, neck-slue,_

_Strong shoulders, manly beard, scapula, hind-shoulders, and the ample side-round of the chest,_

_Upper-arm, armpit, elbow-socket, lower-arm, arm-sinews, arm-bones,_

_Wrist and wrist-joints, hand, palm, knuckles, thumb, forefinger, finger-joints, finger-nails,_

_Broad breast-front, curling hair of the breast, breast-bone, breast-side,_

_Ribs, belly, backbone, joints of the backbone,_

_Hips, hip-sockets, hip-strength, inward and outward round, man-balls, man-root,_

_Strong set of thighs, well carrying the trunk above,_

_Leg fibers, knee, knee-pan, upper-leg, under-leg,_

_Ankles, instep, foot-ball, toes, toe-joints, the heel;_

_All attitudes, all the shapeliness, all the belongings of my or your body,_

_The lung-sponges, the stomach-sac, the bowels sweet and clean,_

_The brain in its folds inside the skull-frame,_

_Sympathies, heart-valves, palate-valves._

**_Sexuality._ ** _’”_

Wilson was paraphrasing a bit, but William cannot find it in his heart to care. If the scientist was trying to seduce him through poetry. . .it was working.

He didn’t know this man even _knew_ poetry.

“I can sing the body electric with but a single finger. _I can open your mind to terrifying new possibilities._ ”

That sounded. . .very familiar, somehow. And it filled William with both fear and longing.

“All you have to say, dear William. . .is ‘yes.’”

“A-All I h-have to say. . .” he repeats, murmuring as if in a trance. His ~~Adam’s apple~~ laryngeal prominence bobs in his throat as he swallows, and his eyes drift closed.

“Y-Yes, Wilson. Yes. Show me. . .”

William can feel the scientist smile against his ear. “You won’t regret it, my dear. I can promise you that.”

The finger William had been watching taps his nose before trailing down the long philtrum and tracing the length of his lips, which quiver deliciously beneath his touch.

“You have the most luscious-looking lips I've ever seen,” Wilson admits, sounding. . .sounding a little shy despite the throaty purr in which he was speaking. “I've spent entire nights thinking about them, ever since we found Webber. Perhaps even before. But you were Maxwell by this point.”

“C-Could you. . .tell me a little about this. . .Maxwell?”

“Maxwell is. . .”

 _A fucking dick,_ he can hear Willow spit in his head.

_A trickster and a demön!_

_Tiny frailman is killer!_

_A condescending jerkface._

_Talentless hack magician._

_Cheap parlor tricks._

_D̵̰͌o̴̘͂d̴̼͠d̷̦̍e̷̼̒r̴̞i̴͕͒n̵̩̔ğ̴͜ ̸̨ò̴̳ḻ̸̽d̶̨̄ ̵̬̿f̴͖͝o̷͈̾o̵̘̐ľ̷̟._

“. . .a little prickly. A little arrogant. Kind of grumpy. Partially age and not-entirely-unwarranted bitterness over the state of his affairs. Partially a defense mechanism to keep people from getting too close.”

“That sounds. . .tragic.”

“It is. But. . . _you're_ still here. That’s a good sign. I think between the two of us, we may be able to mend his heart.” That teasing finger traces the outer curve of his ear, and that throaty purr returns. “If you’re still willing, of course.”

“I. . still do not _q-quite_ understand, but. . .I cannot find it within myself to care at this juncture. W-Wilson, m-may I, ah. . .” William slowly turns his head, unconsciously moistening those mouthwatering lips. “M-M-May I. . .k-k-kiss y-you?”

That devilish young man splits into an equally devilish grin. “I'd be insulted if you didn’t.”

Wilson waits patiently as William haltingly closes the already minimal distance between them, pressing his lips to Wilson’s thin, weather-chapped ones. The magician tasted so sweet, of unblemished innocence and cool mountain spring water in Summer. Not like the pungent smoke and shattered glass and bitter almonds of Maxwell’s poisonous kiss, which he. . .actually found himself missing, even while his tongue was sliding over Maxwell’s previous incarnation’s. Or maybe it was the poison inside _him_ that missed it.

“O-Oh, g-goodness.” William actually sounds like Wendy for a moment, murmuring it in the exact inflection she does, and it strikes Wilson square in the heart. “T-That w-was. . .l-like nothing I've ever experienced. F-Forgive me, but. . .I need a moment.”

“Of course.”

William laughs a little, tugging on his collar. “I-I've never really done this b-before, truth be told. I hope I'm not d-doing too poorly.”

“Never. You’re perfect.”

“Hah. . .you're really t-too kind.”

William freezes when the scientist’s comforting smile falters.

_Father was also very kind. You remind me of him._

_Wilson is too nice. You don’t deserve him._

_Wendy was right about you, you know. You’re a really nice guy._

_You’re one of the sweetest, kindest people I know._

_You’re not **that** much of a sadistic little sociopath. _

_A pity Charlie had to intervene. You would have made an excellent King._

“O-Oh, I apologize! I h-hope I didn’t speak out of turn!”

“No, no!” Wilson suddenly raises his hands, looking equally as alarmed as the magician. “I'm sorry, I was just reminded of something, that’s all. It’s not you, I promise.”

“O-Oh, well. . .I will take your word for it,” William grins, “fellow Wil.”

Wilson laughs, and relief immediately surges through William.

“No, _I_ should be the one apologizing, fellow Wil. I can never seem to turn off my brain, even in the presence of a tall drink of water like yourself. In fact, you've got it running double-time.” Wilson shoots him an impish grin. “Don’t panic if you see smoke or start smelling bacon.”

William giggles until he snorts, trying to politely cover his mouth with his hands. “T-That was simply undignified, my apologies.”

“The only thing you need to be sorry about is being _so heart-meltingly cute I can’t take it!_ ” Wilson grips his shoulders and gives him a small shake. _“Do you know how hard I've been trying to resist ripping off your clothes and ravishing you right here in front of these bunnies!?”_

“Y-Y-You. . .” William is beet-red now—though beets are red because of betalains, not anthocyanins—and coyly bites on a finger. “. . .w-w-want to _r-ravish_ m-me?”

_“I thought that was implicit and **stars and atoms stop doing that finger-biting thing** before my brain implodes.” _

William looks amused despite the fact that Wilson can very clearly hear his heart.

“You’re like a little rabbit yourself, you know that?” Wilson tugs the bowtie loose, unbuttons the single clasp of his jacket, pulls the shirt studs apart, unties the cummerbund. “Their hearts beat 140 to 180 times per minute. 300 under duress. I know, I counted.” He pauses to tickle under William’s chin. “And you’re giving them a run for their money right now.”

“Y-Y-You can hear that!?”

“I have _very_ good ears.” _It comes with the survivalist territory._ “And your heart is also _very_ loud.” Wilson strokes a finger down William’s sternum. “Probably because there’s not much there to dampen it.”

“A-Ah.” William nervously bites his lip. “I-Is that bad?”

“Stars, no!” Wilson reverently pets either side of that wonderfully slender neck, now completely exposed. “You’re quite the specimen. A very attractive gentleman, if I do say so myself. And I do. In fact, if I may be so bold as to take your hand a moment. . .”

The scientist already had him in a state of undress, so he isn’t sure how much bolder he can be. . .until he guides William’s hand to some sort of hard lump of stone covered in fabric. It takes a moment for what it is to register, but when it does, all the remaining blood that hasn’t already pooled between his own legs rushes to his head. _“You've been driving me **wild** this entire time.”_

“H-H-How. . .h-h-how long h-have you. . .?”

“Since about ‘would you like to see a magic trick.’”

William audibly gulps. The revelation clocks him in the side of the head like a loan shark’s improvised blackjack, leaving him extraordinarily dizzy and short of breath. “I-I-I. . .t-t-t-think I-I m-m-may pass out. . .”

“Oh, no! We can’t have that! Let’s lie down, then.”

William wants to ask how exactly they were going to do that and where, but Wilson has already helped him up from the bench and is laying him on some sort of large, fur-lined mattress. He doesn’t have time to question it before a waterskin is brought to his lips.

“I should build plans for a distillery at some point,” Wilson muses as William drinks, and already the latter’s vertigo begins to subside. “I do miss having a bit of brandy to settle the nerves.”

“Y-You're an inventor, as well? How impressive!”

It’s Wilson’s turn to blush, and he bashfully runs a hand through his hair. “It’s not _that_ impressive.”

“It most certainly is! You seem to be proficient in all sorts of sciences! Medical science, chemistry, horticulture, animal biology. . .”

“Y-Yes, w-well. . .I know a thing or two about a thing or two.”

“You knew how to expertly take apart a tuxedo. You didn’t even fumble with the cummerbund. It took me ages to learn to put on the blasted thing correctly.”

Wilson chuckles. “I've had to dress formally a lot in the past.”

“I cannot say I've ever seen such a sharply-dressed scientist, either, gentleman or otherwise. You really have quite impeccable taste. A veritable Renaissance man!”

“O-Oh, stars, stop that.” Wilson tries to hide his embarrassment by busying himself with unbuttoning his waistcoat. “It’s just what I wear in the lab.”

“Laboratory work requires a two-inch Cuban heel?”

“. . .Sometimes you need to reach the beakers on the top shelf.”

“Would not a stool be sufficient?”

 _“Sutor, ne ultra crepidam.”_ Wilson tickles under William’s nose. “Hee, maybe I can make you sneeze doves this time.”

William snorts, gently dissuading him with a hand. “Why are you so fixated on my nose? And I fear my Latin is a bit rusty. I haven’t studied since I was a boy.”

“First, _it’s cute and I love it._ Second, it was a popular rebuke in Greek that carried over to Latin, attributed to the painter Apelles of Kos. Apelles asked a cobbler for advice on how to paint sandals on a soldier, so the story goes, and the man then tried to give unsolicited advice on the rest of the painting. Apelles then admonished him with ‘Cobbler, no further than the sandal!’” Wilson grins, then punctuates each word with a tap to William’s nose. “The. Magician. Will. Not. Tell. The. Scientist. How. To. Science.”

William rubs his nose, but looks no less impressed. “You really are quite the worldly gentleman, Wilson. You also have. . .a barely discernable accent I cannot quite place. It sounds distinctly European, though.”

“You picked up on that?” Wilson looks surprised. “I thought I'd managed to mask it.”

“It’s very subtle, for what it’s worth. I only noticed because,” William gives him a shy smile Wilson could warm his hands over, “I could listen to you all day.”

Wilson is bright red. Like a tomato. Which is red because of all the science. And lycopene.

“. . .English father. Romanian-Polish mother, from the United Principalities of Moldavia and Wallachia. Which I guess is just all Romania, now. I went to boarding schools in a couple different countries and toured Europe for a time.”

“Ah, I _thought_ you had very Eastern European features. Quite dashing, I must say. You must favor your mother.”

Wilson snorts. A dismissive, almost disgusted sound.

“. . .do you. . .not get on with your family?”

“No. I didn’t act enough with enough discipline befitting a man of my station, so they sent me to the States to study medicine when I finished my primary schooling. After, you know. Sending me away to boarding schools in the first place.”

“. . .‘your station?’”

“. . .noble family.”

“Is that right? You’re much more. . .relaxed than I’d anticipated, for a young noble. It explains your high level of education, though.”

“Heh. Speaking of relaxed, you stopped stammering a while back.”

“Ah! So I have. You have a rather calming mien.”

“. . .do I? Everybody else seems to think I'm a bundle of nerves. Maybe we just cancel each other out. Like some sort of algebraic equation of anxiety.”

William chuckles. “Maybe so.

. . .At any rate, I fear I've distracted you long enough. As I no longer feel on the verge of collapse, perhaps we could, ah. . .pick up where we left off?”

The talk of his family had sobered him, but he can feel new life being breathed into the dying embers of his libido at William’s hopeful suggestion. “I would like that very much.” Wilson’s devious smile slowly returns as he abandons his shirt and thumb gloves. “I did promise to show you some magic tricks of my own, after all.”

William grins, biting his lip as he slips out of his shirt and tailcoat and removes his own gloves. “Mm. Maybe I should consider hiring an assistant.”

“. . .h-heh, yeah.”

Wilson’s discomfort fades almost as quickly as it had come when William pulls him into a much more enthusiastic kiss. Warm hands, far warmer than Maxwell’s, trail appreciatively down his back. But his touch is still so hesitant. . .

William has to break the kiss before long, gasping. “I fear. . .I do not. . .have your. . .stamina,” he pants, but Wilson only smiles kindly and offers more water.

“We have time. There’s no hurry.” A warm, rough hand passes over William’s chest, now, and Wilson takes comfort in its familiarity. It was fuller, and a touch less bony, and far less ravaged by malnutrition and Fuel and the Throne, but it was very clearly Maxwell’s chest. “Your skin's so soft.”

It’s when Wilson strokes down to his stomach that he notices William is grinning as he chews his lip. His skin shivers and jerks away from Wilson’s touch, like how a horse's would twitch to displace a troublesome fly.

“And a mite sensitive, hmm?” Wilson’s voice drops back into that lower register that seems to rumble straight through William’s brain. “So cute, watching you try to pretend you’re not _unbearably_ ticklish.”

William squeaks, his flush deepening.

“Now, _normally_ I'd say this was just an abdominal reflex—triggered by stroking around the umbilicus, like so—” Wilson demonstrates by tracing around William’s navel, which earns him more reflexive twitches and squeaks, “—but the way you’re trying _so hard_ to keep from giggling suggests otherwise.

“Do you know why one laughs when tickled? It’s actually quite interesting. It’s a panic response at its core. You may not have noticed, but like with that _adorable_ little stammer, I've observed you also start smiling and chuckling when you get nervous. A purely involuntary reflex.”

Oh, William was feeling nervous, alright. Something about the way he was lying back, with the scientist sitting between his thighs and slowly tracing circles around his stomach, walking his fingers up and down his chest, playing over each rib as if they were piano keys, speaking to him in that lovely voice that made his mind haze, leaning over him to the point that his erection was digging into him _very_ insistently—he felt a bit like a frog pinned to a dissection table. And Wilson’s words sliced through him like a scalpel, cutting out each of his secrets and laying them bare for the magician to look at while he worked. There was no hiding anything from the scientist.

“It’s thought to be a form of submission hard-wired into our brains by years of evolution. Nervous laughter, that is. Nothing diffuses a tense situation quite like laughter. So when your most vulnerable parts are being threatened—vulnerable because of the major arteries that run through them, or how fragile the skin is, or because of the vital organs housed there—you laugh. As if to say—”

He brings his fingers to William’s perfect throat, lightly tickling either side of his neck with the barest scraping of the nails. “‘—please don’t do anything untoward to my carotid or cervical arteries or my jugular vein, Mr. Scientist, I need those to live.’”

William is definitely giggling now, half-reflexively, half-amusedly. Those sweet, nervous little squeals both cheer Wilson and excite him—and he _really_ doesn’t think he can get much harder than he is already.

“As for why one panics in the first place, the blame lies on the hypothalamus of the brain. It’s a bit jumpy and even light touches set it off. It’s the part of the brain that anticipates pain, you see. Which in turn tells us to panic to flee the impending pain. But I'd _never_ hurt you, William.”

The tickles cease for a moment, and William seizes the opportunity to try and compose himself. That is, until what Wilson says next steals his breath.

The scientist’s lips brush his ear as he murmurs in that low, husky voice that is gradually starting to make something within the magician go haywire: _“unless you want me to.”_

William should _actually_ be panicking now. He was _always_ in a blind panic, he felt, often over nothing—but like when Witherstone would send his goons out to come and collect, this would _definitely_ be the appropriate time for it.

But instead he wraps his arms around those deceptively-strong shoulders and kisses the scientist’s throat before his mind can catch up with what’s happening. “Hold that thought for now,” he murmurs back, licking up the side of Wilson’s neck. He isn’t sure what he’s doing, opting to rely on instinct and intuition, but the way the man gasps says it must be something right. “I would like to hear the rest of your lecture. I require further. . .edification.”

“Y-You. . .” Wilson sounds a little breathless, and it only further encourages William. “Y-You _like_ when I talk about science?”

“I said I could listen to you all day, didn’t I?” William laughs affectionately. “And is it my imagination, or did I just feel you get _harder?_ ”

_How interesting. I always learn so much from you._

Off come the quarter brogue Oxford shoes, the spats, the socks and their garters, the tuxedo pants, the underwear. And when William is completely undressed, Wilson begins tearing off the rest of his own clothing, as well.

“You are driving me _absolutely_ _stark raving **mad** ,_ little stringbean,” Wilson rasps, pressing his body against William’s as he seizes him in a fervent kiss.

For a man that purportedly spent so much time in a laboratory setting, Wilson’s body was quite rugged. He was all lean muscle and virtually no body fat. And in spite of the strange scars that marred his pale skin—ranging from what looked like splash back from acid to the claws of a beast—he was seductively smooth. William found himself particularly fond of his chest hair, perhaps because he had none of his own; it curls around his fingers as he gently scratches through it, and the vibration of Wilson’s pleased hum makes his lips tingle.

“Even your grooming is gentlemanly,” William notes. “I must say, I'm pleasantly surprised.”

“I wasn’t able to do it in the wilderness for the longest time,” Wilson admits sheepishly. “Now that I'm a bit more established and can afford to be hygienic, I went a little overboard. Plus when you’re around other people, you don’t want to offend, and body hair collects so much sweat and grime. . .

It also makes me feel a touch more. . .civilized.” He pauses, gazing into the distance. “Oh, I get it, now. A portmanteau of ‘man’ and ‘landscaping.’ Where does Willow come up with this stuff?”

“You. . .” William blinks at him. “You live in the wilderness!?”

“. . .it’s a long story.”

“That explains the musculature and the scars! My goodness, you’re the very epitome of masculinity!”

Wilson hides his burning face. “O-Others would disagree,” he mumbles.

“Though that also explains why you had a waterskin on your person. And this sort of. . .bedroll, I suppose. What kind of pelt did you use for this, by the by?”

“Ermine,” Wilson lies quickly.

“It’s very soft. I would not mind sleeping on it, I think.” William gives Wilson’s neck a tentative lovebite, and is overjoyed when the scientist moans quietly. “Especially if I were to share with a strapping young buck like yourself.”

“I-I'm nnnot. . . _mmm_. . .”

“Oh, but you _are_. I was doing my damnedest to try, but you are absolutely _impossible_ to resist. Everything about you is just so. . . _intoxicating_.” William’s effusiveness is almost too much, but Wilson drinks up the praise like a man dying of thirst. “Are you sure you’re not a sorcerer? Or some handsome demon here to tempt me?”

_Terrible, beautiful things. It’s best not to fight it._

“I'm naught but, _mmm,_ a simple scientist, I'm afraid. But if you think me an incubus, well. . .I suppose I can act the part.”

Wilson settles between William’s thighs and lowers his head, eyes closing and tongue extending from between parted lips.

“ _Ohhh_ —n-no, wait! W-W-Wilson, w-wait!”

Dark eyes flick upwards beneath dark lashes, punctuated by a questioning quirk of the eyebrow.

“I. . .I don’t t-think. . .o-or r-r-rather, I-I-I don’t k-know i-if. . .”

“Afraid I'll _actually_ suck out your soul?” he teases, and William moans miserably. Just the heat of Wilson’s breath. . .

“N-N-No. . . _w-worse_.”

“‘Worse.’” Wilson laughs lightly, slicking a fingertip with the copious (clear, thankfully) pre-ejaculate rolling down the length of the poor magician like wax from a burning séance candle, passing it over the slit at the tip—the _meatus_ —and easing it between the glans and the foreskin. “What could be _worse_ than—"

Much to Wilson’s surprise, the magician forcefully ejaculates with a forlorn cry.

Wilson can only lie there in disbelief, semen dripping from his brow and down his nose, clinging thickly to his chin. “. . .Ah.”

He sits up, wiping himself off. “You know, this isn’t the first time I've had something explode in my face, if it’s any consolation. And it certainly won’t be the last. But at least it doesn’t _burn._ ” He laughs. “And I still have my eyebrows! One of my best features, after my meticulous coiffure. That reminds me, do I have it in my hair? Because I think I might have it in my hair.

. . .William?”

Royal Burgundy was not just a type of stringbean, it seemed. It was also the color of William’s face, now buried in his hands.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay!” Wilson rubs his shoulders and kisses the crown of his head. “It happens to everybody, trust me. I'm just flattered that I excite you so much.”

William just makes a loud, frustrated sound behind his hands.

“You’re just a little worked up, that’s all. Like you said, you’re not used to this. And, well. . .I haven’t been with anyone in quite a long time, myself. My _endeavors_ have been mostly. . .solitary since then. I'd be lying if I said I wasn’t just as nervous.”

William peeks at him between his fingers.

“Most of my experiences have just been sessions of awkward fumbling around with other grubby hormonal teenage boys in boarding school. Beyond a few times in medical school and once or twice in graduate school, I really didn’t partner up much. You could say that my sex life is a lot like my line of work.” Wilson smiles self-deprecatingly. “Theoretical.”

William eases.

“. . .so I apologize for unintentionally putting so much pressure on you in my, err, _enthusiasm_. I'm told I can be a bit. . .pushy at times. And I _did_ pretty much throw myself at you like a beast in estrus.”

“I don’t think you’re pushy. Or a beast, beyond your. . . _bestial appetite_.” He smiles, tickling under _Wilson’s_ chin this time. “Though your expressions do remind me a bit of a rabbit.”

“Rabbits have. . .expressions?”

“They do! Did you know they'll actually hold grudges and pout? They’re quite moody little things. Domesticated ones will start thumping in protest if they’re not given enough attention. And they’ll apologize, too, when they know they’ve been naughty. They do so by way of touching heads.”

“I. . .didn’t know that, actually. That sounds adorable.” _I probably shouldn’t experiment on the Rabbits anymore, either. . ._

“It absolutely is. And. . .oh.” William blushes. “You _do_ still have some in your hair.” He reaches into the pocket of his discarded jacket for a handkerchief. . .which comes out knotted together with several others in a chain. “Ah. Right.”

Wilson can’t help but laugh.

“Oh, blast it all.” He tips a little water from the skin in the first handkerchief and uses it anyway. “I'm sorry, I feel like we keep getting sidetracked. You had all these plans and I keep ruining them, or making things awkward, or interrupting you, or start talking too much, or—”

Wilson silences him with a finger to his lips and a reassuring smile. “ _You’re fine._ I'm quite enjoying myself, regardless of what we're doing. Or not doing. And I hope you are, too.

Although, while we're waiting for your refractory period to be up—” Wilson’s smile turns mischievous, “—you _did_ say you wanted to hear the rest of my lecture.”

“Oh, yes! Yes, I did say. . .that. . .”

William trails off when he sees Wilson’s hands. Fingers curved like claws, wiggling menacingly.

“Ah, no. N-No, on second thought, I think I still may be a little too sensitive right now for _that_ lecture.” William smiles nervously, pushing his hands away. “M-Maybe another?”

The string of handkerchiefs cinches around William’s wrists, binding them together.

“W-What in heaven’s name—W-Wilson!”

“Too tight?”

“W-Well, n-no, but I cannot move my hands!”

Wilson grins, tightening a second knot and looping William’s joined arms around his neck. “Yes, that was the idea.

. . .Oh, drat. I hadn’t considered you might be able to Houdini your way out of this.”

“I'm not—I'm not THAT kind of magician!”

Wilson’s grin widens. “All the better, then! You can learn, and expand your repertoire!”

He kneels on the excess “chain" so that William can’t simply raise his arms to escape. “Now.” He raises a single finger, curling and flexing it as if mimicking the movements of an inchworm. “Let’s continue with the other parts of the brain.”

William is fighting to control his reactions now that Wilson has brought his attention to them; the corners of his mouth twitch despite him pressing his lips together in a hard line, and his chest and stomach quiver spasmodically as he wrestles to keep his anxious giggling suppressed.

The finger made it _so much worse._

“In addition to the hypothalamus being activated like so. . .” Wilson’s finger “inches" over to the shallow dip of William’s navel, and the latter squirms and tries to shrink away. Try as he might, he cannot stifle a high-pitched _“Pffffee-hee-hee!”_ before Wilson can even touch him. “Um, excuse me, sir, I am trying to do a demonstration.”

“P-Please, n-n-no, I c-can't take it!”

“I haven’t even touched you yet, silly thing.” Wilson dips his fingertip into the small depression, and William _squeals._ “I _still_ haven’t _actually_ touched you!”

“P-Please, p-please, _d-don’t_ —!”

“Such a troublesome little magician you are. Resistance isn’t going to help, you know.” He swabs around the inside in a slow circle, and William _shrieks_ with laughter.

_“I am **barely** touching you!” _

_“S-S-Sensitive!”_ William wails in agony. _“J-Just c-came, t-t-too mmmuch!”_

Wilson clicks his tongue. “Surely you’re not _that_ sensitive, still. And you’re just going to make it worse for yourself if you keep moving. So anyway, the hypothalamus. . .”

William’s hands fight to free themselves as he simultaneously tries to writhe away from the probing finger. His legs slip out from under him, and he attempts to catch himself—but without the use of his arms, he only succeeds in stretching himself out, as if assuming the position to perform a push-up. Something he likely couldn't do with those noodle arms, Wilson thinks in amusement. _Even though **I** couldn’t do them until recently. . .and Wigfrid keeps making fun of me for doing the “girl önes” that use the knees. . ._

But protectively curling in on himself is now a physical impossibility.

“What did I _just_ say, William.”

“. . .t-that I w-was g-going t-to make it w-worse?”

“Uh-huh. And what did you do.”

“. . .m-made i-it— _ahahaha!_ ”

William buries his head in his outstretched arms as Wilson tickles under them, an almost idle drumming of the nails along the usually-covered area. “No one ever listens to the scientist,” Wilson sighs. “But thank you for your demonstration of the flight response, it was very helpful.”

“ _Ahahaha!_ S-Stop, _S-STOP! Hahahaha!_ ”

“Mr. Carter, laughing during a lecture is very rude. Now where was I. . .?”

Wilson ceases momentarily, and William wheezes for breath. Face flushed, hair mussed, glasses askew. The scientist fixes them for him with a pat on the cheek, and receives a glare in response. Wilson can only chuckle.

“You’re going to have to practice those cold glares if you want them to work on me,” he teases, stroking under the magician’s chin, and his sour expression gradually melts into a smile. “Awww, but this look is much more becoming.”

William’s much more reserved giggling is likely due to shyness rather than ticklishness. Though it was likelier still to be a bit of both. “You also blush each time you’re tickled under the chin, you know. It’s simply precious.”

_I wonder if Maxwell does it, too. . ._

“Y-Yes, w-well, I'm not used to being touched.”

Wilson smooths back William’s hair. It was softer, fuller than Maxwell’s, but it was just starting to thin in places. He also appeared a bit younger than Maxwell, though probably not by much. But even though no one aged in The Constant, the Fuel and the Throne had not been kind to his body. If the posters for The Great Maxwell were any indication, he had started to appear visibly older after finding the Codex Umbra. At the time of his disappearance in 1906, Maxwell looked to be in his early forties, which would make William somewhere in his late thirties. Maxwell himself would be in his mid-fifties by now. And he was starting to look it (though not necessarily in a bad way).

How old was _Wilson_ now? Thirty-three? Thirty-four? After five hundred and forty-four lifetimes in five hundred and forty-four iterations of The Constant. . .it was hard to say.

“. . .Wilson? Are you alright? We can stop, if you’d like.”

 _“No!”_ he shouts, a little too quickly, and William jumps. “Err, I mean. . .no, I'd really like to continue, if you don’t mind. I just, ah. . .my mind seems to be running away from me again.”

“. . .I'd comfort you with a kiss, but I am still in a bit of a precarious position.”

Wilson smirks, tapping his chin as he pretends to mull this over. “A kiss, or leave you to suffer. Decisions, decisions.”

William snorts. “I'm beginning to wonder what my future self did to you to warrant such treatment.”

Wilson freezes.

“. . .T-That was a joke.” William’s brow knits. “Wait, did I _actually_ do something—"

Wilson pulls William back into a sitting position and into a hard kiss, supporting the back of his head and holding him around the small of his back. William is swooning by the time they part, almost completely limp in Wilson’s arms. Wrists still bound around the other man’s neck, lips swollen and glistening, eyes glazed over, breathing erratic, pupils dilated, heart pounding, jaw slack, glasses crooked, red from his ears to his collarbone.

_Oh, you found my portal, did you? You'd think you would have learned your lesson by now. Hmm. Let's try something a little more challenging, shall we?_

“The hypothalamus drives the body to survive. Tells us when we need food and water, regulates our body temperature, and urges us to reproduce to further the species. It controls sexual desire—or rather, _what_ we desire, and _whom_.”

_Well, would you look at that, you survived. One down, four to go!_

“More specifically, it’s the suprachiasmatic nucleus within the hypothalamus that governs one's. . .preferences. Enlarged suprachiasmatic nuclei in men is indicative of bisexual or homosexual behavior. Interesting, right?”

_What? You're still here? Impressive, but you should probably stop while you're ahead._

“That said, the hypothalamus in same-sex-attracted men, as well as heterosexual women, activates with the scent of testosterone in perspiration.

. . .And suddenly I realize why Wigfrid and Willow started getting handsy with a sweaty lumberjack and a chef who stands near hot cooking equipment all day, respectively. And why Wes was eyeing up a sweaty strongman. Huh. Guess it’s not a magic spell, after all. Just science.”

_Say, pal. You're really pushing your luck. Turn back now, or I may have to resort to drastic measures._

“I should really start developing a deodorant formula before everybody starts mounting each other like Beefalo. And it'll be a godsend come Summer. Because, ew. If we weren’t sticky and gross before.

Where was I? Oh, right. But in spite of the hypothalamus dealing with all that nonsense, it’s the amygdala that controls the arousal response. Not just sex, mind you, but emotional arousal like fear. The sexual arousal response and the fear response are nearly identical. Heh, I guess that’s what comes between sex and fear. The brain.”

_Say, pal. Let's make a deal. You can stay here. Settle down, even. I'll give you food, gold, pigs, whatever you need. All I want in return is a truce._

“But the thing is, the amygdala is right next to the hypothalamus. Meaning pain, fear, and pleasure all share the same. . .circuitry, shall we say. And sometimes those wires get crossed.”

_You insolent, pitiful, insignificant ant! Do not arouse the wrath of the great Maxwell! You will regret coming any further. . ._

“Which really explains a lot of fetishes and paraphilias, if you think about it. Some more benign than others.

. . .like being cut up, for instance. I think he may _actually_ be into that. I thought _my_ tastes were a little unorthodox, but jeez.”

_. . .Well, this is it. You found me. Now, what are you going to do?_

“Maxwell, I am _trying_ to copulate with your brain. Please stop interrupting my lecture via intrusive thoughts.”

“I'm listening, I'm listening,” William gurgles, still stunned and limp in Wilson’s arms.

“You didn’t catch any of that, did you.”

“The hypo-mygda-whatsit makes something something fear and pleasure,” comes the dazed reply.

Wilson chuckles, releasing William to creep his fingers up his sides. “Close enough.”

This seems to snap William out of his haze, and the nervous laughter and writhing begin anew. “T-This a-again!?”

“Mmmhmm. You’re so cute when you laugh. Cute when you do anything, really, but the blushing and giggling really do it for me.”

“Y-You’re so— _heehee_ —strange!”

“Yes, I get that a lot. Kiss me.”

William doesn’t need to be told twice, leaning in for a kiss even as giggles continue bubbling out of him unsuppressed. Stars, does Wilson ever love how his laughter tastes. Even though his was often tense and from the throat, whereas Maxwell’s was more natural and from the chest, Wilson was content to let both wash over him.

“One last thing about the brain, now that I have your undivided attention,” Wilson murmurs against his lips, and William can only nod.

His fingers spider from William’s sides to his chest, and his giggling starts to meld into moaning, instead.

“It’s not just the hypothalamus that activates with tickling, you know. The somatosensory cortex is also hard at work, struggling to analyze what all these different touches are. But your ribs were so uncomfortably ticklish before, and now they’re not. Strange, isn’t it?” Wilson grins, petting the smooth expanse of his upper torso with the whole of his hands, now. “I think that’s because some of your other cortices just caught up.”

He carefully lies William back on the Fur Roll. “Do you know what the prefrontal cortex, and portions of the orbitofrontal, insula, and anterior cingulate cortices all have in common?”

William shakes his head, biting his lip.

“They all deal in _pleasure._ Your poor brain has been trying to filter all these different sensations and is now coming to the consensus that, hey, all this tickling is actually starting to feel pretty _good._ Or maybe it’s just because you’re being continuously touched by the ‘strapping young buck' you fancy. Or perhaps both. Who can say? Further research is required, I think.

Or maybe I'm just a really, _really_ good scientist that knows the body and the brain like the back of my hand. And thus, am capable of making you feel all sorts of different things at once.” Wilson leans down to whisper in his ear. “Try doing _that_ with magic.”

Wilson has stopped touching him now, but William is still squirming and moaning beneath him, his fingers grasping uselessly at the air, his toes curling.

“Ah, your amygdala’s switched responses and your anterior cingulate cortex is anticipating some sort of reward, I see.” Wilson tugs on part of the handkerchief chain behind him—a simple slipknot, it seemed so obvious now—and it falls away, freeing William’s wrists. “Then a reward I shall give. You've been _such_ a good case study, after all. Not that I was about to deprive you in the first place.”

There’s a sound of a metal scraping threaded glass as Wilson unscrews some sort of jar, and a rich, nutty aroma permeates the air. “And I have just the thing.”

“W-What. . .w-what is that?”

“Almond oil. I used to make it myself when I had proper lab equipment. _And of course Maxwell didn’t put any almonds in his world so now I need to find something else,_ ” he grumbles under his breath, “but it’s lightweight, moisturizing, absorbs well into the skin without leaving much residue, and doesn’t stain sheets. It’s also a primary ingredient in bone wax, which is just seven parts beeswax, one part almond oil, and a smidge of salicylic acid. As the name implies, you seal broken bones with it. Slap some on a split sternum following cardiothoracic surgery, and _voilà,_ instant bone hemostasis.

. . .it also smells nice. The oil, I mean.”

William just stares at him in bewilderment.

“. . .I kinda miss doing surgeries, sometimes. But, uh, that’s neither here nor there.” Wilson coats his fingers in the oil and—

“W-Wilson! W-W-What a-are y-you—!?”

Wilson pauses. “I said there would be ravishing happening, didn’t I? I'm not going to do it _dry,_ my goodness. That would be awful for all parties involved.”

“N-N-No, i-it's just. . .I-I m-mean, I-I d-didn't t-think. . .w-what i-if I-I'm n-not. . .?”

“William.” Wilson looks at him seriously. “Do you trust me?”

“I. . .” He feels like he shouldn’t, but. . . “y-yes. Yes, I. . .I-I do.”

“Then believe me when I say that I'll make this feel really good. And if you want me to stop, I will. Okay?”

William nods.

“I'll go slowly. It might be a little uncomfortable at first, but I'm not going to hurt you. I promise.”

Maxwell often sealed his deals with a handshake. Wilson seals this one with a kiss.

One kiss becomes two becomes three, linked together like the handkerchief prop lying forgotten amidst their discarded clothing. Wilson generously oils up both his hands, smoothing one over William’s erection while his other drifts between the cleft of his buttocks.

He had kind of suspected Maxwell had no backside to speak of—the coattails hid it, so he hadn’t been able to say for sure—but it still surprised him to actually _see_ how. . .flat it was. And narrow. And pale. (More so than the rest of him.)

Willow often told Maxwell he was a tight-ass, but _she had no idea._ That prospect, along with the fact that he’d be the only one of the group to ever see Maxwilliam like this, left him strangely giddy.

He massages the oil into the tightly-puckered skin to soften it, and an image of those Wormholes that dotted Maxwell’s world passes through his mind. They were hairy, undulating, rank, and worst of all, full of teeth. But Wilson had jumped through them all the same. And it had never been a pleasant experience. Willow always said she’d felt like she needed to burn her clothing after traveling through them, and Wilson was inclined to agree with her. He always wanted to scrub down in a nice bath afterward. An alkaline bath first, then an acid bath. Lye and diluted sulfuric acid would do it. Maybe a sodium hypochlorite solution, just to be safe.

But this. . .this was nice. Smooth, flushed, clean. William, and by extension Maxwell, were seemingly anal-retentive—heh—about good hygiene. That much was readily apparent, and greatly appreciated. Especially when the others could use some. . .guidance. Willow’s irrational hatred of water meant Wilson had to forcibly scrub her down on more than one occasion; his attempts to be gentlemanly and preserve her modesty were quickly abandoned when a wild swing nearly broke his nose. Then he nearly drowned her in the Pond.

. . .but he felt bad afterwards and had hopped into the Pond with her, and they called it even after she got to see him naked.

He smiles to himself. He was as just as anxious about this as William, but these little memories and stray thoughts relaxed him, somehow. He works gently, patiently, methodically, all while keeping up his slow masturbation to keep the magician’s mind off any potential discomfort. And it appears to be working—Wilson manages to work his middle finger past the tight ring of muscle before long.

William grunts quietly around the intrusion, and Wilson pauses to let him adapt. “You alright?”

“I am adjusting,” he hisses through gritted teeth, before adding as an afterthought, “now I don’t have to move the piece I just touched.”

Wilson blinks.

“Did you just. . .make a chess joke?”

“I, _nngh,_ did, yes.”

Wilson chuckles. “I take it that’s the only other context in which you've used ‘I am adjusting?’ To circumvent the touch-move rule? I prefer _‘j'adoube,’_ myself. More succinct.”

William starts to relax, and Wilson takes that as his cue to progress. “You play?”

“You don’t know the half of it. I've only managed to beat you once.”

_. . .Well, this is it. You found me. Now, what are you going to do?_

William chuckles a little. “I'm, _mm,_ quite good.”

_Is this what you were expecting?_

“I know you are.”

_Forgive me if I don't get up._

“You’re the Black King, after all.”

“I-Is that so?”

_You've been an interesting plaything, but I've grown tired of this game._

“I,” another quiet groan as Wilson carefully removes his finger to add more oil, “rather like black. It’s very chic. I wish I were stylish enough to— _ahh!_ —pull it off.”

_Or maybe T̵̟̎h̷̞͋ḛ̶̿ȳ̵̪'̶̗̃ṽ̵̦ẻ̴͇ grown tired of me._

“You do, actually. You look good in black.”

_Heh. Took Ţ̴h̴̖ě̶͉m̷̫̓ long enough._

“The future you, I mean. But I'm sure you do, too.”

_T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐'̵͕̄l̷͍͠l̵̫̐ show you terrible, beautiful things._

“I'm more impressed by how well you pull off. . .whatever shade of purple that’s supposed to be. Very few can do that.”

Wilson swears he can feel William grow harder in his hand.

_It's best not to fight it._

“O-Oh. . .t-thank you.”

_It'll change you, like it did me._

“M-May I. . .have another kiss?”

_There wasn't much here when I showed up._

Wilson leans over to give him one, and William eagerly accepts it.

_Just dust. And the Void. And Ţ̴h̴̖ě̶͉m̷̫̓._

“Y-You’re. . .” William gazes up at him, biting his lip in that coy manner that makes Wilson’s brain swim. “You’re such a good kisser.”

_I've learned so much since then. I've built so much._

“You’re pretty good, yourself.”

_But even a King is bound to the board._

“Y-You think so?”

_You can't change the rules of the game._

“I know so.”

_I don't know what T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ want. T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐. . . T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ just watch._

“A-Are we. . .together?”

_Unless you get too close. . .then. . ._

“In the future?”

_Well, there's a reason I stay so dapper._

“We are.” In a manner of speaking.

_Go on, stay a while. Keep us company._

“Good.” William closes his eyes. “That’s good.”

_Or put the key in the box. It's your decision._

For the briefest moment, the warm flesh in Wilson’s hand is the Divining Rod. William gives a pleased moan at the resulting squeeze.

_Either way, you're just delaying the inevitable._

“You know, my dear William, there’s a very important part of the brain I foolishly forgot to mention.”

_Reality is like that, sometimes._

“I-Is there?”

_I think I've said enough._

“Mmmhmm. The nucleus accumbens.”

_. . ._

“W-What does that do?”

_The Throne won't allow that. I've tried._

“It’s colloquially referred to as the ‘pleasure center' for reasons you can likely guess.”

_Don't you think I've tried that?_

“And do you know what I'm going to do to it?”

_This is the end of the line._

“N-No, w-what?”

_We have no escape._

“I'm going to give it one hell of a workout.”

Wilson inserts his ring finger along with his middle finger, and William stiffens with a startled cry.

“Shhh, shhh, just relax. Deep breaths.” Wilson quickens the pace of his stroking. “It'll feel good in a second. Because there’s an absolutely _magical_ little area right. . .about. . . _here_.”

William jolts, his eyes rolling back as Wilson firmly presses down and rubs. “W-W-Wi-Wi-Wi—!?”

He very nearly orgasms, but Wilson grabs his testicles and the root of his erection in one hand and squeezes, almost _too_ hard. But it has the intended effect of disrupting his climax before he can hit his peak. “Oh, no you don’t. Not yet, little stringbean. We haven’t even gotten to the _really_ fun part.”

William is panting heavily, eyes wide and unfocused, fingers and toes digging into the fur beneath him, saliva shining at the corners of his mouth. He is falling apart, crumbling like—

Wilson shuts his eyes, trying to shake the image of Maxwell’s body rotting away before him, the rancid meat sloughing off his bones and disintegrating before it even hit the ground, that final agonized scream that chilled him to his core still ringing in his ears before what remained of his skeleton collapsed into a heap of dust. . .

He adds his index finger, now. Much to his relief, William no longer reacts with pain, however minor. He looks to be positively _drowning_ in dopamine and oxytocin.

“Looks like that prostate massage helped, eh?” Wilson slicks _himself_ up with the oil, grinning widely, now sufficiently distracted from his own memories. “Bet you didn’t even know you had a sweet spot like that, did you.”

William is barely cognizant, too busy boiling in chemical soup to really comprehend what’s being said. But it was likely a rhetorical science question he didn’t understand, so he shakes his head.

Wilson, once again, gingerly removes his fingers, and William actually _whines_.

“Awww, don’t do that.” Wilson laughs affectionately as he washes his hands in a conveniently-appearing stone basin. “I'll just be a moment. Are you ready for me?”

_“GOOD HEAVENS, YES!”_

Wilson laughs again. “You sound awfully eager for my cock, you shameless little slut.”

It isn’t until William actually sits up to look at him in disconcertment and bemusement that Wilson realizes what he'd just said. And the scientist slaps a hand over his mouth.

Maxwell had _finally_ infected him with his _filth._

_“O-Oh stars I'm so sorry I really don’t know what came over me that wasn’t gentlemanly at all—”_

“. . .I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am shameless.”

Wilson blinks.

And blinks some more.

“. . . Well, praised be the gods for thy shamelessness. Sluttishness may come hereafter.”

William slowly spreads into a Maxwell-sized grin. “Of course you know The Bard. _Of course_ you do. Why wouldn’t you?” His eyelids lower. “Get over here and make me a slut, then. With your science and your Shakespeare and your Whitman and your Latin and your eyebrows and your ‘meticulous coiffure.’ Make me a slut in front of this ‘assembly’ of Lagomorph ‘horn-beasts.’”

Wilson eases, his own grin returning. “Yes, sir, Mr. Carter! Don’t have to tell me twice.” Wilson scoots back over, positioning himself between William’s thighs. To William’s surprise, Wilson lifts his hips, propping the magician’s legs up on his shoulders, and eases into him.

He's still so tight, despite all the prep work. There’s a sort of surprisingly pleasant _pop_ as he pushes past the sphincter, and they both groan in relief when he slides in to the hilt with much less resistance. Wilson takes a moment to compose himself, resting his brow on William’s chest. “H-Hoo, boy.”

“ _I_ should be saying that.” William chuckles, ruffling through Wilson’s hair. “Y-You feel _incredible_.”

“P-Pretty sure that’s the. . .oil. . .”

“Heh. Are. . .you alright?”

_“J'adoube.”_

William laughs, and Wilson grunts with the contractions that follow. “I-I think I also need a moment to adjust. I'm f-feeling very. . .full.”

They stay like that for a good minute, and Wilson raises his head to catch William in another kiss. He doesn’t think he could ever kiss Maxwell this frequently, not even taking the Fuel transference into consideration. It felt too tender, too intimate, too. . . _affectionate._ They were the same person, technically, but it just. . .didn’t feel _right_ with Maxwell. Lovingly stroking William’s hair, plying him with sweet kisses, calling him a vegetable and gazing into his eyes—it felt _natural._ It felt _right._

With Maxwell it was just. . . _wrong._ He was the King. He was the Master. He was the Devil himself.

You don’t call the Devil a cute little stringbean.

But maybe. . .he could, one day. Maxwell’s jagged points were already starting to soften. Even if he was still poison, even though he was composed almost entirely of bitterness and hatred and Nightmare Fuel, he was gradually losing his edge.

. . .enough to let Charlie get to him. Enough to let _Wilson_ get to him.

“Okay,” William whispers against his lips, pulling him out of his reverie once again. “I'm ready.”

“Alright. Let me know if it’s too much.”

Wilson pulls back slightly and then pushes back in, coaxing William open further. It’s no longer like having his penis constricted in some sort of molten vise, though the smooth muscle pulls him ever deeper. . .

He pauses to re-lubricate. William is fondling his chest now, tugging gently on its hair. Wilson is already flushed, but his flush deepens when a soft murmur of appreciation follows the petting. “I-I never k-knew I liked my men with a little something to h-hold on to.” His laugh is light. “I never knew I liked _men_. A-And I never knew I'd like. . . _this._ But I-I think that’s because of you. H-How do you even _know_ so much? The touching, the kissing, the oils. . .”

Wilson must be really red, now. “Luckily my vast knowledge also extends to sluttishness and hedonism. It’s just, you know. . .science.” He shyly looks away. “Although, I didn’t have much of a sex drive until. . .recent years.”

“Oh? What changed?”

“I started talking to a magician over the radio.”

“Oh.

OH!

Y-Y-You mean. . .”

“. . .Yeah.” Wilson smiles sheepishly, though he still doesn’t meet those bespectacled doe eyes. “It was you.”

He's starting to feel more than a little flustered under that heavy gaze. And then William suddenly grabs his hips and all but slams him back inside.

“W-Whoa, e-easy! I-I don’t want to tear you!”

“I don’t care.” William sounds breathless. “I need you.”

_I need you._

William was almost like a separate personality rather than a part of Maxwell. They didn’t seem to share the same memories, for starters. This earlier incarnation was pre-Codex, pre-Charlie, but he somehow still recognized Wilson. Instinctively trusted him.

As he had paraphrased from _As You Like It_ , William wasn’t a slut. Based on what Wilson knew and what T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ had told him, William wasn’t the type of man to immediately take a turn amongst the cabbages because of a few nice compliments. No, just as he had been vaguely aware of Wilson’s existence despite their paths never crossing, there had to be some sort of existing desire that was being fed into him from somewhere.

William was the embodiment of all Maxwell’s insecurities, his neuroses, his hang-ups. His sense of guilt and shame, back then bordering on pathological, and his long-dead modesty. His naïveté, which wound up irreparably changing his life.

But in this instance, was he also a proxy to express how Maxwell _really_ felt?

_I don’t care. I need you._

William obediently raises his legs, and Wilson hooks them back over his shoulders before thrusting in earnest.

Wilson really _was_ deceptively strong for such a wiry little thing. Hardened by his time in the wilderness, no doubt. He'd really have to ask and oh yes oh YES oh right THERE _OH GOODNESS YES_

Even in this lightless void, he can see Wilson’s muscles move under his scarred skin, the concentration in those smoldering eyes, set deeply in those dark, sunken circles. See his tongue poke briefly between those thin lips, see him shake back those thick waves of hair from his face, see the gears turning in his head as he tries to calculate Lord knows what in the middle of intimacy. See him realize William is staring and positively _beam_ at him with the biggest boyish grin that belies those wan, exhausted features. And William absolutely melts.

Wilson leans over him, now, trapping William’s erection between their stomachs. Residual oil and fresh sweat and smooth, waxed skin rolling back and forth provide some extra stimulation William didn’t even know he needed, and then there’s a tongue in his mouth that isn’t his and extra fingers laced between his own and—

The only sound, beyond some disinterested Rabbits chewing on gimmick playing cards, is wanton moaning and the profane slapping of wet flesh. Hard suction on lips and tongues and nipples, punctuated by a thick slurping that would make either of them pale and shudder in revulsion in any other situation. This was the antithesis of everything they were, slatternly and crude and base and slimy but it was _wonderful_ , it was _rapturous_ , it was _divine_.

Neither of them were expecting their coupling to be this good. Time spent rolling in the hay was time better spent making scientific breakthroughs. Time wasted on buggery and filth was time that could be used to practice before the next performance. No breakthroughs, no funding. Less audience turnout, more debt. They were professionals, _busy_ professionals. There was no time for such frivolous nonsense as a romp in the sheets.

And yet here they were, hypocrites of the highest order, grunting and thrusting like animals through whispers of romantic prose and ribald sleaze.

“W-Wilson, I-I'm c-close—!”

“O-One m-moment, darling, one moment—”

Wilson sits up, pulling out, and William makes a very Maxwell-sounding snarl of frustration.

“Shhhh, shhh, just wait, dear. I need to adjust about. . .fifteen degrees.”

“W-What are you tal _—AHHHHH~!”_

Wilson spears him right in that spot that makes stars rain down in front of his vision.

“‘D-Die bravely, like a smug bridegroom.’ G-Go on, Prospero.”

 _“T-That's t-two d-different_ — _HAHHHH~!”_

Wilson pulls William’s hips down with every upwards thrust, but the sudden roughness only enhances the pleasure. They were both about to lose it.

_“W-WILSON—!”_

_“William—!”_

_Maxwell—!_

If the screaming didn’t frighten away the Rabbits, William pounding his fists on the Fur Roll certainly did. What felt like hours of buildup leading to this one perfect crescendo, this burst of energy, this release of tension, this snapping of the ropes that kept them tethered to their worries. . .

They were science. They were magic. They were the universe itself.

Wilson falls forward, collapsing atop William as his hips give a last few bucks. Each one is accompanied by a clipped, low groan from both parties, until there is little else but ragged panting.

“Stars. . .and atoms. . .”

“Good. . .heavens. . .”

The two tremble in a joined embrace, limbs tangled together like potato peels curling from Warly’s paring knife, each stray tingle that runs through their respective nerve branches drawing out a small moan.

“T-That was. . .what _was_ that?”

“I told you,” Wilson laughs quietly, “ _the magic of science_.”

“I think that’s, _mmm,_ ” William shudders with another errant pulse of pleasure, “something you made up off the cuff.”

“Believe, _ahh,_ what you want.” Wilson drowsily raises his head. “Oh, you have it on your glasses.”

“I have _what_ on my. . .oh.” William grimaces. “Ew.”

Wilson chuckles, retrieving the other end of the handkerchief prop. “You call it ‘ew,’ I call it a seal of approval.”

William sticks out his tongue in disgust as his glasses are removed. “That’s somehow _worse._ ”

“Is it? Because you must have _really_ liked what I was doing if you managed to shoot that far.”

 _“W-Wilson!”_ William swats his shoulder. “D-Don’t say things like t-that! I-It's embarrassing!”

“Hmm. You know, I could probably measure your level of arousal by mapping that trajectory. . .”

_“W-Wilson!”_

“Now, would I divide distance by time to find the speed, or multiply mass by acceleration to find the force. . .?”

_“W-W-WILSON!”_

Wilson laughs, replacing William’s glasses. “Relax, I'm teasing.” He taps a finger to his lips with an impish quirk of the eyebrow. “Or _am_ I?”

“Insufferable man! Off of me! _Off!_ ” William pushes the entirely-too-amused Wilson off of him, and by extension, the Fur Roll.

“Now _that_ sounds more like the magician I met.” Wilson grins, taking William’s hand. “Come on. Let’s take a bath.”

“How are we. . .?” But a solid porcelain tub appears beside the fur-lined mattress. “Oh. Alright, then.”

Wilson sighs. “I miss actual baths. One of these days, I'll make actual plumbing happen. But with how often the camp gets destroyed, it feels kind of. . .pointless.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, after you.”

William starts to ask, but decides against it. He eases into the hot water with a contented sigh. “I've never had anything like this before.”

“Really?” Wilson carefully steps in once he’s settled. “You mean, like, a tub?”

“Not a porcelain one. Too expensive. That and tubs like these weren’t produced until I was already a grown man.” He pauses. “How old are you, Wilson?”

“I, uh. . .well, I was born in 1890, so. . .”

William blinks at him in disbelief. “I knew you were young, but surely you’re not actually _fourteen_.”

“No, I'm thirty-ish.”

“Thirty- _ish?_ What—what year is it?”

“Last I knew, 1921.”

“Nineteen twenty. . .” William holds his forehead, trying to absorb all this information. “You mean to tell me _seventeen years_ have passed!?”

“Probably more like eighteen or nineteen, but I'm not sure. I lost count after a while.”

“What have I been doing for _nineteen years!?_ ”

“You were, uh, a little tied up for most of those. Again, it’s a long story.”

“ _Nineteen years._ Good heavens.” William rubs his temples. “Wait, that means. . .”

“You’re in your fifties, yes.”

“I'm _fifty-seven._ ”

“And you look fantastic!”

_“I'm two decades your senior.”_

“I have a thing for older men, what can I say. Heh, Abby does, too.”

“‘Abby?’”

“Your niece.”

“My. . .?” William suddenly seizes Wilson by the shoulders, his consternation over time shenanigans and his true age immediately forgotten. “You know Jack's girls!?”

“They wound up stranded with us. So. . .yes, I do. They’re both fine, strong, smart young ladies, don’t worry. Abigail’s a little hellion. Very tough, very sassy. Wendy's the quiet, bookish one. She acts a lot like you.” Wilson smiles fondly. “It’s always really sweet, watching you both interact. You both make the exact same ‘for the love of God, shut up, Wilson' expression. Actually, Abby does, too, now that I think about it. . .”

“You. . .” William softens. “You sound like you care for them a lot.”

“I do. Like they're my own.”

“I. . .” Wilson is washing him now, a bar of soap in hand, and he relaxes. “I never thought you the type.”

“I didn’t think I was either, honestly. I've never been good with people. Avoided them as much as I could. Then we found a kid, and I kind of. . .adopted him? I mean, the whole camp did, but he’s my little guy.” Wilson seems to swell with pride. “I think he'll make a great scientist. Or doctor. Or whatever he wants to be. I don’t care, as long as he’s happy.”

“. . .Wilson. . .what _actually_ happened to you? To me? To Jack’s daughters?”

Wilson is quiet a moment.

“You discovered magic. _Real_ magic, not tricks. And you became corrupted by it.”

“. . . ‘corrupted. . .?’”

“You were stranded in the desert after a train accident on the way to see your brother. You discovered a tome full of dark magic, which you used for your act. You lost control one performance and got you and your assistant trapped in an alternate dimension of sorts.”

“Then how did you. . .?”

“You managed to contact me through my radio, I assume with your powers. You asked me to build a portal according to your specifications, which I did. And it worked. . .but it was only one-way. We built another one together after we met up, but all it did was pull people from other dimensions. Like Jack’s girls.”

“So the three of you are trapped in the wilderness. . .because of me?”

“. . .we're all here because of the choices we all made. I pulled a Faust and Wendy started dabbling in the occult. We all played with fire and then were surprised when we got burned. Wendy’s a child, she didn’t know any better, but. . .”

_I suppose I deserve that._

“. . .you and I both got what we deserved.”

William opens his mouth to respond, but is seemingly distracted by something. “Wait—do you hear that?”

“Hear what? I don’t—”

_Click, click, click._

_“. . .oh no._ I know those footsteps.”

Wilson turns.

“. . .Hi, Maxwell.”

William stiffens behind him. “ _That’s_ —!?”

Maxwell stands before them, back slightly bowed, one hand in his pocket, a cigar hanging between his lips. He doesn’t appear furious, as Wilson had anticipated. He just looks. . .

. . .tired.

. . .so very tired.

“ _That’s_ Maxwell. . .? _That’s_ what I. . .become. . .?”

Maxwell doesn’t say anything. He simply raises his other hand and starts drawing some sort of sigil in the air.

And then Wilson is booted from his mind, waking with a gasp back in his Tent. It’s still dark, and he gropes around for his Lantern.

Once on, he roots through his things for clean undergarments— _this dream-sex thing is getting out of hand_ —and dresses. Then he grabs an Umbrella and leaves.

Maxwell’s Tent is still surrounded by Shadow, and to Wilson’s dismay, thicker than before. The Shadow sentinels remain, and Wilson keeps his distance.

“Maxwell. _Maxwell!_ ” he hisses urgently. “I know you’re awake. We need to talk.”

Maybe he can’t hear him. But he doesn’t want to shout, and he can’t get too close with the Puppets still there.

The stone basin Maxwell used to collect rainwater has been moved back outside his Tent, Wilson notices, and he closes his Umbrella and strikes it with the handle.

_Thok._

Perfect.

_Thok thok thok._

Three short, clipped _thoks._

One short, one long.

One long, one short.

_C-A-N. W-E. T-A-L-K._

Did. . .did Maxwell even know Morse code?

_M-A-X-W-E-L-L._

Wilson freezes when one of the Puppets walks toward him, Sword raised.

And then it raps the edge of the basin with it to tap out a message of its own.

_N-O._

_G-O. A-W-A-Y._

Wilson tries again.

_P-L-Z._

_N-O._

_P-L-Z. T-A-L-K. 2. M-E._

_L-E-A-V-E._

Wilson sinks, slinking back to his Tent in defeat.

But he skulks back out before long, an Eyebrella on his head, a second Lantern in hand, a Piggyback strapped to his back, and a Green Cap held between his teeth.

And he disappears through the back entrance of the camp.

□■□■□■□■

“Has anyone seen Wilson? He’s not in his Tent.”

The Survivors look up from their respective breakfasts and shake their heads.

“Didn’t he say he was going to restock the medical Chest? Perhaps he’s out gathering Reeds in the Marsh.” Warly hands Willow a plate. “Here, have some breakfast. Can’t panic on an empty stomach, can we?”

Willow looks no less worried.

“. . .that was a joke. I am sure he’s fine and there’s no cause for alarm.”

“I dunno, Warly. When he finally showed his face yesterday he was all crazy-go-nuts. And he seemed pretty broken up last night over Maxwell not accepting his apology.”

“You mean that big hoser's _still_ sulking!? What fer? Wilson said he was sorry, didn’t he? What’s he got to be stubborn aboat?”

“You know how Maxwell gets over stupid crap that only makes sense to him.”

“Heh.” Wendy humorlessly picks at her food. “The same could be said of Wilson, really.”

“You’re not wrong, Wenders. And I'm about to kick _both_ their asses if they don’t knock this shit off.”

“I. . .would not advise that, Willow.” Warly gently rests his hand over the Poultice on her arm. “It’s been all of two days. They'll come around.”

“Yeah, except we don’t have time to sit around and mope if we want to _survive,_ that’s the problem! That freaky darkness bitch has the Throne and who _knows_ what’s going to happen!”

“That reminds me, actually. Uncle was not shy about appearing and disappearing at will to taunt us while he had the Throne, and Charlie compensates for her unwillingness to leave the darkness by leaving notes for us.

. . .but did anyone actually see Wilson while he was in control?”

Each Survivor thinks about this.

“Now that you mention it, little buddy. . .no. I didn’t even know the Throne changed hands—twice—until I wound up here and Wilson told me. Didn’t even know there _was_ a Throne, eh?”

“I never saw science man, either.”

“I may experience a bit of the brain fog that comes with age from time to time, but I think I would have distinctly remembered Wilson showing up with a glib little post-death greeting _à la_ Maxwell.”

“. . .dö yöu think he wanted tö spare us?”

Everyone looks at Wigfrid.

“. . .did I say sömething ödd?”

“No, I. . .” Warly holds a hand over his mouth, pensive. “I think you may be on to something. He tried to find out about my mother after my disappearance, even calling upon Ţ̴h̴̖ě̶͉m̷̫̓ for help. We hadn’t yet met at this point, but he still. . .”

_“OoOooOo.”_

“What’s that, Abigail? Wilson did. . .” Wendy’s expression changes to something. . .strange. “He. . .saw that? The séances?

. . .and he wept over them?”

_“OooO.”_

“That’s why. . .that’s why he always. . .he could never let you stay in your Flower. When he found Webber, he was so insistent on summoning you, even killing himself to do it. I thought he really _did_ want to just introduce you both at the time, but. . .”

_“OooOoo.”_

“. . .he _did_ always help me catch Butterflies when we needed to bring you back. He insisted. Every. . .time. . .”

“. . .he knew I grew up on the streets. He knew I burned my orphanage down. He knew I did what I had to do to get by. But he never. . .he never judged me for it. And even though he always complains when I make him fix Bernie, he never refuses. . .”

Willow looks up from her plate.

“I think I figured it out. Why the Throne messed him up so much, even though he wasn’t on it super-long.”

Everyone looks at her, expectant.

“He made Ţ̴h̴̖ě̶͉m̷̫̓ angry. He refused to do what T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ wanted. And they tried to punish him for it.”

_All I can really say about T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊ is don’t make T̶͈̥̘̗̉͒̓̉͊̎̎̽̈̀̃̃͘͝h̷̜̻̋e̷̢̧̼̰̟̜͔͔͕̩̣̺͔̤̙̐̾̌̿͐̀̏̑̃m̴̧̧͓̺̳͉̟̹̳̟͔̖͊̈́̇̉̎̉̎̊ angry._

_Why? What happens?_

_I don’t know. And I don’t want to find out. But if it’s anything like when Maxwell gets hopping mad, it can’t be anything good._

“He was lying when he told me he didn’t know what T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ would do if you pissed Ţ̴h̴̖ě̶͉m̷̫̓ off. And the only other person who knows is Maxwell, and he’s not saying shit.

. . .the only time I've ever seen Maxwell look scared— _really_ fucking scared—is when T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ come up. And if that’s what T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ could do to Maxwell. . .Wilson never had a chance.”

“. . .what do you think they did to him?”

“I don’t know, Webber. I really don’t. But Wilson and Maxwell have both said T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ like to mess with your head. And I think they were _both_ a little screwy before T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ decided to interfere.”

“You mean. . .?”

“Yeah. I think T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ broke his brain. And he’s been trying to keep it together ever since, but now he’s stressed out over Maxwell and the cracks are starting to show.”

_Clap. Clap. Clap._

**“T̸̹͝h̸͇͝a̴͚t̷̰̏'̴̭̿s̴̫͝ ̵̣́ṁ̵̤ỵ̵̃ ̵̢̈́g̸̘͝i̵̲̕r̴̝͊ĺ̷͚.̷͓͠”**

Wilson stands at the entrance of camp, slowly applauding. He’s completely drenched, his sodden hair hanging to his shoulders. Every so often, his body will spasm as a visible electric jolt runs through it, like he'd been struck by Lightning more than once.

**“A̷͔̐w̶͖͒f̵̪̚ȕ̸̺l̷͇̕l̵̿ͅy̸̩͒ ̶̱͋c̶̜̎l̸̼͠e̷̝̋v̶̩̂e̷̳͘r̶̤ ̸̝̔f̸͕̓o̴̝͝r̶͙͘ ̸̫̄a̷̜̅ ̶̹̿l̷͚͒i̶̻͑t̷̤̊ṫ̶͜ļ̵̿ẽ̷̤ ̵̮̋ş̵̒t̵͓͊r̸̯͊ȇ̸͚e̷͖͂t̴̙͗ ̴͍̆u̵͚͊ȓ̴̹c̸̢͝h̶͇̉i̶̖͌n̵͕,̶̮̎ ̸̝̔Į̴̂ ̸̥͐ȃ̵̳l̴̬͘w̵͍͊ȧ̸̳y̵̥̆s̶̗͠ ̸͇̓t̸͚͋h̷̦͂o̵̩ǘ̶̪g̶̤̕h̶͍͌t̸̪̄.̴̧͑”**

“Holy shit, Wilson, what the hell happened to you!?”

Wilson grins, sauntering over to the horrified group. Webber runs over and tries to hug him—as if maybe his love could help—and is rewarded with a shock that knocks him back. “O-Owwie! Mr. Wilson, you’re all sparky!”

**“O̸̫̕ẖ̷̈,̷̲͝ ̸̊m̷͔̀ȳ̷̻ ̷̺͆f̴̲̈́a̶̠̔v̷̫̊o̸̠̔r̸̩̃î̵̘t̶͚̆ȅ̶͉ ̵̲̎ạ̵̊ḃ̷̜ō̸̟m̵̠͘ḯ̷͎n̵͈̿ȧ̷̟t̵̛̝i̸͈̊ő̷ͅǹ̵̙!̴̽ͅ ̴̘͂Ẁ̷͍a̷̤̒ṫ̴̢ë̴̯́r̷̞̄ ̵̛ͅc̷̺̕o̷͙͗n̴͘ͅd̷͓͒u̴͇̕ç̶͐t̵̹s̸̢͝ ̷̩̑e̴͔̿l̵̰̄é̷̥c̴̪̆t̶̘̅r̴͙͋i̷̖̍c̸̜̽ȋ̴̟t̴̹̐ÿ̵͜,̸̻͂ ̶̲͂l̴̩͝ȁ̴͚d̶̺̅.̸̧ ̴̝̈́T̵̨͊h̸̹̾ě̸̻r̴̈́͜ê̸͉'̷̗̄š̸͓ ̷͆ͅỷ̴̡ǫ̷̈́ṷ̴̚r̶̡͌ ̴̲̈s̵̡̔c̸̖͘i̷̲͂e̸̙͊n̸͖͆c̴͔̈ē̵̲ ̸̘̅l̶̘͝e̵͎͂s̷͈̀š̸̞ő̵̼n̵͔͒ ̴̘̚f̷͚̅o̵̼͠r̷̜͋ ̸͉t̶͚͐ỏ̷͖d̷̄͜ą̷̽y̴̫̕.̵͈̆”**

He drops his Piggyback in the mud and roots around in it, pulling out armloads of Papyrus, Spider Glands, Mosquito Sacks, and Blue Caps.

**“S̶͍͂ȩ̴͌e̵̜͝?̵̭̒ ̵̖̂I̵̮̾ ̴͍̌s̸̮̅a̴͈̒i̷̹͘d̵͔ ̶̠̄I̷̯͘'̸̥̚d̶̘̈́ ̴̧̄r̴̮̊ě̴̢s̷̬̒t̸͖͆o̷̝̓c̴͉͐k̵̼̍ ̴̟̅t̴̳͑h̸̰͗e̶͖̎ ̵̨̍ḿ̴͔e̵̞̋d̴͕͂i̷̡̔c̶͈̈́i̴̺̓n̴̳̈ë̵̡ ̵̘͠C̵̡̍h̶̛̬e̷̢͘s̶̮̈ṯ̸͠.̴̣͌”**

He carries the assortment of items over to the Chest and drops them in, humming as he does so. Webber huddles up next to Wendy, holding her arm. “Wendy, I’m scared.”

“It’s okay, Webber,” she whispers back. “Abby, will you try talking to him?”

Abigail floats over to Wilson and murmurs something.

 **“O̸̘̿h̷͉͋,̷̻̊ ̶̠̑m̶͓̄y̷̹̔ ̵̩͑o̶̠̓t̸̯̑h̷͍̑ȇ̷̟r̸̺̎ ̴̰͝f̸̘͊a̵͈͌v̸̩̔o̵̬͌r̶̝̋i̵̪̾t̸̡͠e̶̖͛ ̵͔͘a̷̜̾b̵̝̅o̷͇͐m̵̳̕ḯ̶̜n̶̖̈́a̴̰͘t̵̔ͅi̷̦̍o̵̪̍n̶̦͆!̵̩͆ ̴͔̾Y̴̢͊ȏ̵̖ű̷̬’̴̲͛r̷̰̓e̶͎̎ ̴̩͝l̴̹͛ỏ̷͇o̷͖̔k̸̗̔i̷͚̋n̵̨̂g̶̣̚ ̵̢̚ _s̶̹̊p̵͓̂i̵̲͂ř̴̤ĩ̴͙t̵̯͊ẻ̵̺d̷̺̏_ ̸̯̎t̴̜͗o̸̠d̵̝̓a̵̳̓y̶̻͌.̶͓̽” **His pitched giggle over his own terrible joke sends a chill up the collective spine of the camp. But his grin rapidly fades into a withering scowl as Abigail murmurs something else.

**“W̷̦̅ĥ̶̨a̷̯̽t̶̏ͅ ̸̨̉ _ã̷̫b̴͓̄o̵͕͛ù̴̲ť̷̳_ ̵͈̋M̷̰̀ā̵͚x̷̙̆ẅ̷͓ĕ̸̙ḽ̷̍l̷͖̃.̷̟̈́”**

_“Abby, no!”_ Willow hisses. _“Abort, abort! Before he blows a gasket!”_

**_“Ȋ̴̝'̵̜̅m̷͍͊_ ̷̑͜b̸̟͝e̷̱͊i̴̬͝n̸͇̏g̶͚͋ ̵̣̓u̷͍͘n̶̠̈́ṙ̷̠ě̷͎ȃ̴̙s̵̪̕o̵͓͝n̸̙͑a̵̺̕b̶̗́l̸̩̓ẹ̵̈́?̷͔̇ ̶̻̽ _H̷͍̀e̶̟̓'̷̧̐s̸̨̈́_ ̵̻͌t̵̛͚h̵̛ͅě̴̡ ̷̧̇ọ̶͆n̴͉͆e̵͕̾ ̸̧̏ŵ̵̯h̸̭̔o̸̟͝ ̶̘̍ẃ̴͉o̷̥̓n̶͔̕'̷̛͜t̴͍ ̵̫̄a̴̗͝c̵̙̈́c̴̭̑e̸̙͒p̴͔̆t̸̹͊ ̴̭͗t̸̯̊h̸̖͝e̶̞͘ ̸̼̆ď̷̝a̵͙͝m̷͕͂n̵̠̔ ̵̘͆a̸̳͗p̵̩̈ǫ̸̆ḻ̷̂o̸̢̔g̸͉̋y̷͍̓.̷̩̎”**

Wilson storms past her and back to where he'd left his Piggyback.

**“S̸̳̈́ő̷̱ ̵̰͝I̵͓̍ ̵̠̋ǧ̵̭o̴̦͂t̸̠̉ ̴̰͆ĥ̵̞i̷͈̅m̸͉͛ ̷͉̊a̴͙͑ ̸̨̆p̸̜̚r̵͓̍ë̶ͅŝ̶̢e̷͙̋n̵̘͑ẗ̷̺.̵͕̄”**

He turns his Piggyback over and shakes out its contents.

Organs plop down into the mud in a slimy pile.

_Hearts._

Merm hearts. Pigmen hearts. Hound hearts. A Ewecus heart. A _Varg_ heart.

**“I̵̠͆ ̵̯̈́ċ̷̩u̷͕͛t̵͍̒ ̷̻̊t̷̯̍h̴͇͗é̶̯m̵̥͠ ̵̫́o̵̖̔ṳ̵̀t̷̻ ̵͔̒m̵̜̉y̶̜̑ș̴͠e̵̠͘l̸̢f̷̲̿.̴̦̄ ̴͚̋D̴̫͊ȯ̵̟ ̴̥̊y̶̻͑ó̸̰u̴̢͛ ̶͕̕t̷̾ͅh̶̟̕i̴̘͗n̸̓ͅk̴̳̾ ̴̻̓h̴͉͗e̸̛̖'̸̳͠l̸̩̍ļ̶͗ ̸̖͊l̶̡̑i̷͓̒k̶̺͘e̵̲͘ ̵̮͋t̶̥̕h̶͚̏ẻ̶͜ḿ̵͓?̸̬͠”**

The bewildered silence that follows is deafening. Even _Wendy_ looks disturbed, which no one had thought possible.

Willow finally breaks the silence with the question that seems to be on everyone’s mind.

“. . .Wilson, what the actual _fuck_.”

**“Ḭ̴'̵̭̅m̵̯͊ ̴̜̈́e̶͎̍x̸͍͛p̸̟͝r̴͇̿e̷̞͑s̸͇͛s̶̯̕i̷̝̓ņ̵͛g̷͉̕ ̵̨̃m̴̕͜y̴̳̋ ̸͔̿ _f̷̮̏ḛ̵̆e̶̲͛l̴̟͠i̴̛̱ñ̶͚g̷͖̾s̵͚̐.̵̥͛_ A̵͖͘b̷̭͌b̸͖͆ỵ̸͝ ̵̻̂ṡ̵͉a̷̭͆y̶̻͝s̴̪̈́ ̶̞̌I̸̥̋'̸̧͐m̴̹͂ ̵͙͋n̷͙̍o̴̮͋ţ̷̏ ̵̱g̶̙͊o̷̟̅ö̵̩́d̸̘͘ ̴̪͋a̶̳͠t̷̖͋ ̴̆ͅt̷͓̄h̵̰̎ą̷̓t̴̟͌.̴̧͐**

**. . .M̴̪̒a̷̙̓y̶̪̕b̶͚͝e̸̙̾ ̸͚̍I̴͕͂ ̴̨̆n̶̼̆e̶̞͋ȩ̶d̶͙̆ ̶͓̃m̵͇̐o̵̻͝r̸̻̽e̸͚̎ ̵͎̓h̶͎͋è̸̝ą̷͑r̵͈͗ṯ̵̑s̵̫͆?”**

“I, ah, think you have plenty, _mon ami._ How about I make you a nice cup of tea—”

Wilson’s laugh is sharp and bitter. **“N̸̞͆o̴̞̚,̴̱̉ ̸̗͠n̶̳̒o̷̟̊,̸̗̉ ̸͔̂I̴͖͝ ̷̯̉k̵̦̋n̷̗̍o̷̭͊w̵͍͛ ̵͍̊ẅ̸̤́h̶̥̊a̵ͅt̸̤̍ ̷͕̃y̵̟o̵̰͌u̸̺'̸̟͠r̷͉̃e̶̮͐ ̷̞̊t̵̰̉ŕ̸̲y̴̠̒i̴̦̍n̴̛̼ġ̴̞ ̶̪̽t̶͕͂o̷͔̐ ̸͓͑ḑ̷̓o̴̺̎.̴̞͝ ̵̹̌A̶̭̕n̷͕͑d̶̯͋ ̴̤̽W̴͔̌i̵̧̅g̵̪͆f̶̻̓r̴̥͒ỉ̵̥d̸͖̊,̷͇̔ ̴͕̊I̶̝͝'̵̘̾d̴̛̥ ̶̠̚l̷͕e̵̩͠t̴̤̾ ̶͚̾g̷̰͛o̸̦͑ ̴̟͝o̸̫̍f̵̪̂ ̵̲̒t̸͕̀h̶̭͗â̴̠t̶̩̂ ̶̰̃S̷͙̊p̶̠͊ȇ̷͓a̶̰͊r̵̢̚ ̴̹̄i̸̪f̶̢̓ ̶͎͐I̵̘̐ ̶͉́ẇ̵̥ė̸͓r̵̯̕e̵̦̐ ̷̡̔ÿ̷̙́o̶̫͒u̷̹̐.̵̠̓ Y̸͇͋o̶̹̚ȕ̷̲ ̴͈͝t̶̛̮ò̵̠o̶̮̎,̵̫͝ ̶̭͋W̵̪͝o̴̹̐o̵̻͆d̶͉̔i̷̢͘e̴͚̓.̷͕͛ ̶͐ͅP̶̧̆u̴͖͂t̷̗͝ ̴̡̓L̷̰̓u̷̲̔c̷̻͂ý̴͎ ̴̃͜d̷̬̍ő̵͇w̶̲͐n̵̡̑.̷͙̚”**

Wilson isn’t even looking at them. Wigfrid and Woodie are so startled they drop their weapons.

**“Ą̴͆n̸͚̈́d̷͈͠ ̸̪͋M̵̛̙ş̴̕.̶̩̈́ ̸̦̚W̵͔͝i̷̗͒ċ̷̬k̵̪e̵̗̅r̵̙͝b̵̳̒o̷͔̅t̴̹͠t̸̖̄ȍ̵̩m̶̡̑,̶̮̍ ̶͍͌i̵̺̓f̴͚ ̸̙̏ŷ̶̠ŏ̴̢ǘ̵͔ ̸̭̌r̷̨͝e̴̘͑ä̶̤́l̵̤͠l̴̻̊ý̶̢ ̶͇͠t̶̺̕h̴̹̀i̷̯̐n̷͝ͅk̵̦̕ ̴̲̐5̵̺͗0̵͉͛0̴̭̑ ̸͍͂p̷̨̒a̶̖͂g̴̦̈́e̶̖̔s̸̺͒ ̵͍͝ǫ̴͝f̴̩̋ ̶̪̽t̸̥̊ẹ̴̉ḽ̵̌e̸̛͙g̸̢̃r̵̛͍a̷̪͒p̴͙̀h̷̭̉ ̸̺̈́c̸̘̕ö̵̬́d̶͇͘e̴̲̅s̷͘͜ ̵̩͘ä̴̩́r̴̹̔e̸͖͋ ̵̫̂g̷̲̓o̴̩̎i̶͛͜n̷̄͜g̶͈͋ ̸̙̍t̸̊ͅo̴͍͘ ̴̦̒p̷͇̈́ũ̸͈t̷̨͝ ̷͚̑m̷͕̾ȅ̶͚ ̴̖͆t̶̟͝o̵̯͛ ̵̘̓s̴̤̉l̶̺̿ė̸̗e̴̓ͅp̶̣̆,̴̰͝ ̶͕̕y̴̘̾o̶̗̾ṵ̸̒ ̸͍̒ĉ̴̟l̶̪͗ḙ̸̀a̵͓͋r̵̞̔l̶̠͝y̶̦ ̵̗̈́d̵̘̿o̶͍̐n̴̍ͅ'̵͇̿t̴̥͗ ̵̠̍k̶̳̏n̶̘̑o̸͙̚w̵̩̔ ̵̫̅m̵̠͗ẽ̶ͅ ̸̠́v̷̟͝e̷̬͗r̶̘y̶͔̿ ̴͖̑w̴̯̍e̵͎͑l̶̯̃l̵̩̑.̷̢̕”**

Wickerbottom, too, slowly sets her enchanted book back down.

**“A̶̭̕n̸̼̓ḍ̵̏ ̴͙̍W̸̺͛ë̵̺ņ̴̃d̴͎̈́y̷͓̕,̷͍͝ ̸͓͂d̵̩̂a̵͜r̶̖̄l̵̛͕i̵̹̍n̷̠̍g̵̠͝,̶̕͜ ̴͚̆t̷͎͂h̷̥̓a̷͓͘t̵̝ ̷̻̏i̴̘̽n̴̩̔c̶̰̚ạ̵͒n̸̢̈́t̷͔̍a̵̤̾t̸̢ḭ̷͝ő̴͚n̷̟̑ ̶̬͝ÿ̵͚́o̴̧͘u̵̲̕'̶̟̽r̸͆͜e̷̥̊ ̷̖̈ḿ̸̫u̷̻ṱ̶̑t̵̗̚ḛ̷̛r̶̡͋i̴̒ͅn̷̺̚g̴̼̚ ̵̐ͅo̴̝͗v̸̧̾ẽ̵͎r̵̺̈́ ̷̦̈́t̶̯̍h̵̙͆e̸̟͌r̵̦̽e̵̡̕ ̴̹͝i̴͈̕s̴̪̔n̴̫͘'̴̖̉t̴̮́ ̵͙̅g̶͓̅ơ̵̦i̴̛͜ṉ̷͆g̵̓ͅ ̵̰̒t̷̼̔ȏ̵͚ ̴̪͘w̵̝̔o̸̼̕r̴̼̂k̷̜̑.̷̼̎”**

Wilson tsks, gathering up his pile of hearts.

**“R̷͇͛e̵̢̓a̸͓͠ĺ̷̙l̵͙͝y̸̱͐,̴͎̿ ̶̱͂a̷͉͝l̸̼̔l̸͎̃,̸̡̃ ̵̨̏Ĩ̷̟ ̸͇̾ṫ̷͍ḫ̴̊o̶̯͋ù̸̩g̶̺̔h̷̅͜t̸̞̍ ̵̳̕w̷̻̃ȅ̸̞ ̵̮̚w̵̹̏ḛ̵̂r̸͓̿e̴̘ ̷̳͂ _f̷̤͋r̷͚͗ị̴ȅ̵͇ǹ̷͉d̵͉̅s̴̰̄_.̷͖̆”**

“O-Of course we’re your friends, you dumb nerd.” Willow takes a step forward, clutching Bernie so hard her knuckles are white. “W-We just want you to feel better—”

But Wilson is already walking away, as if he hadn’t heard her. He lets the rain rinse the mud and grime from his hearts before bundling them up in a neat, but soggy, little package. He wanders around the perimeter outside the camp, as if looking for something.

 _“Have any you lot seen him this bad a'fore?”_ Woodie hisses.

 _“No way.”_ Willow hisses back. _“He's balls-to-the-wall bugfuck insane.”_

 _“We must subdue him somehow, but I do not wish to harm him. Especially if he really **did** submit to psychological torture to keep us from harm, if only temporarily.” _Wickerbottom folds her hands over her mouth, conflicted. _“That, and he’s a very sensitive young man. The second he perceives any of our actions as rejection or abandonment, he's going to become upset. And when that happens, he will quickly turn volatile.”_

_“Sö then, what dö we dö? I cannöt. . .I cannöt fight a friend.”_

_“And there is no reasoning with him in his current state,”_ Wendy adds. _“If not even Abby or Webber can get through to him. . .”_

Willow absently rubs her injured arm. _“Dammit. I can’t believe I'm saying this, but I wish Maxwell was here. He'd know what to do. But of course now he picks the perfect time to be a useless sack of shit over a wounded ego._

_. . .wait, Wendy. You kept him from dissecting Maxwell the other day with some chess bullshit.”_

_“I. . .I suppose? I did not think it would work, but he was acting so much like Uncle, and you know how Uncle gets about chess. . .”_

_“Oh, shit, he’s coming back. Come sit by me, girlie. You too, Abbs, Webber.”_ She grasps Wendy’s hand. _“Give the chess shit another try, please? I'll be right here next to you, holding your hand. If he does anything funny, I'll crack him one.”_

 _“I. . .”_ Wendy swallows. _“I will try.”_

Wilson returns, a Dark Sword in his hand. Everyone freezes.

 **“İ̴͔ ̸͓̈́ķ̴͠n̷̖̉e̴̲͝w̷͎̌ ̶͍̆Ȉ̸̗ ̶̙͛l̷̦̀e̶̓͜f̶̥̂ẗ̷̻́ ̶̡̈ț̴̀ḥ̵̽i̴͕̔s̸̘̔ ̴̺̈́s̵͍͆o̶̗͝m̷̬̍ĕ̴̬w̶̫̑h̷͚͒e̶̢̕r̵̻̓e̶̙͛.̴̩͛”** He gives it a test swing. **“T̴̖̈́h̸̔ͅa̸̠̽t̶̠̎ ̷̭̈r̴̢͒e̷̱̓m̶̰͒i̸͇̋n̵̛̩d̷͍̕ṣ̸̌ ̴̞͌m̸̗͌ẽ̸͎.̵͕͋ ̴̭̉I̸̹̊ ̵̘̎n̷͉̕e̶͙̔e̶̮͂ḍ̸̊ ̸̦͒t̶̛̩o̶͎ ̷̝͠c̷̖̾h̶̻̍ȇ̴̠c̵͙̕k̷̝͛ ̵̠̈́t̴̪́h̶̪͑o̶̩͆s̶͈̏e̴̹̅ ̵͍̀ṡ̸̘t̸̮͝i̴̲̽t̸̬̒c̵̍͜h̶͚̓ę̴̕ș̵͐,̵̳͋ ̶̭̔W̵̤̉i̷̧̔l̷̰͠l̶̥̓o̴̮̅w̶̹̅.̷̥̈”**

“Yeeeah, uh. . .how about we wait until you’re a little less. . . _zappy,_ buddy? I don’t like the way all the metal stuff on your clothing is sparking.”

Another jolt induces another full-body spasm. **“F̴̖͛a̵̛̼ị̷́r̵̗͋ ̵̬e̸̗̚ṉ̸͊o̶̝̿u̶̜̕g̶̲̾h̶̨̛.̴͍̓ ̷͙̈́O̸̥͐h̴̅ͅ,̴̡̄ ̵̍ͅI̷͕̓ ̶̦̒n̵̻̐ę̶͐v̷̦̓e̸͔̋ȑ̸͉ ̴̩̊g̴̠̋o̸͔̕t̶̝̄ ̶̼̿t̴̥̉o̵̬͋ ̵̯̒s̵͔̚h̶̗̿ǒ̷̯w̵̦̒ ̵͎̉y̵̗̎o̸̹̕ụ̶ ̶̙͂m̸̗̏y̸͕͌ ̷̪̈́n̶̩e̴̻w̷͖͘ ̵̫͘ì̶̱n̵̢̓v̸̥͑ẽ̸ͅn̶̺t̷̰̔i̸̬o̷͉͝n̸̟̐!̶̬̕”**

Wilson gleefully pulls from his waistcoat what appears to be

an enlarged human heart

still beating.

****

**_“I̶̱͠s̸̘n̵͂ͅ'̵̬t̵̬̅ ̴̮͌i̸̧̕t̷̬̎ ̶̦̇b̷̗̒e̶̞̒ä̷̫u̸͐͜ṫ̸͖i̷̝͒f̴̗͗ȕ̷̠l̴̗̄?̷̳̄”_ **

****

Whatever chess metaphor Wendy had been preparing dies on her lips. And the adults are no help, simply staring in slack-jawed horror.

“. . .I like it. What does it do?”

Wilson beams. **“Ţ̴͑h̵͓̏a̶͇͑t̴͙͝'̶̝s̴̹̒ ̵̹̌m̵̤y̴̹ ̸͚̑s̵̖̓ť̵̜u̵̬͝n̸͓̋ǹ̸̼i̴̯̓n̷̢̈́g̴͙̃ ̵͉̉ĺ̸̡i̵͓̚t̶̛̬t̶͙̐l̴̳̾e̵͖̒ ̴̢͝p̵͇̎r̷͍̈́i̷̟͌n̷͒͜c̷͎̄é̴͙s̶̡̈s̴̪͝ ̸̫̈o̴̝̊f̵̼̀ ̸̢́t̵̟h̴̞̽e̷̜̐ ̴͕̾m̷̙̂a̶͈̔c̶̡̕ȃ̸͓b̵͍̊ṛ̶́ę̵͝!̸͍͌ ̶̖I̸̘͂ ̸͈̾k̷̻̐ṋ̶e̴̙̓w̷͍͂ ̸̭̉I̷̢ ̷͚̓c̴͙̒o̷̥͐u̵̧̇ĺ̶͉ḏ̵ ̴̞̀ç̴̀o̷̺̐u̷͓̽ṉ̶̛t̷̳̓ ̴̜͘ō̷̡n̸̲͝ ̴͔̾y̸̝͐ȯ̴͉u̶̡̾.̶̼͒”** He holds the heart proudly in his hands. **“A̵͙͝s̷̹̽ ̷̧̈́f̸͉̕o̷̪̐r̷͎̿ ̵̡͛w̸̪̌h̶̤́a̴̯͋t̶̜̂ ̸̥͑ì̸͎t̷̞͂ ̷̱̂ḓ̵̐ö̷̝́e̸̼͌s̷͎,̸̢͘ ̷̤̒b̸̞͝e̸̻͒s̶̞̐i̷̳͠ḑ̵̚e̷̜͠s̶̻̉ ̷͈́b̵͍͋e̵͕̕ḁ̴͂t̵̮͌ ̷͕ẃ̵̘ḭ̷͠t̴ͅh̴̬͘ ̵̱̿a̵̳̿ ̴̞͌m̴̠̅ȳ̸̯s̴̲͘ṱ̸͂i̶͕̿c̸̝̑á̷͜l̷͇̍ ̷̕ͅs̵͖͝c̷͖̃ï̶̘e̸͇͋n̶̫͆t̸̲͊i̷͖͌f̷̂ͅi̷̙̅c̴͍̄ ̶̭̕ę̴̔n̸̡͠e̵͖͌r̵̖͆g̷̠͠y̶̫̋,̴̡̿ ̶̧̓n̸͓̚o̷͜ ̶̳͋ī̴̱d̶̪ẽ̶͕ą̵̊!̸͈͗**

**Ḭ̶̍ẗ̵̜ ̷̖͒m̷̹̃i̴̪̾g̶͔̀ḣ̶̤t̸͕̓ ̶̱͠b̵̺̑e̷̮ ̷̰̍ĝ̸̰o̴̱̊õ̵̜d̵̹̓ ̸̭̊f̷̧̐o̸̤͊r̷̛̥ ̸͊͜ẗ̷͓r̶̻̍a̴̪͝n̵̗͑s̷͇̐p̵̖̿l̴̝̑a̷͕͠n̸̬͆t̸͉͐s̸̄ͅ.̷̮̈́ ̷̬̋D̶̮̾i̷̫̔d̸̠͗ ̵̦̊Ǐ̴̲ ̶̗̕ė̸͇v̶̖͛ę̴̽r̴̬̅ ̷̼̐t̴̥̄ë̵͖́l̸̻̇ĺ̷̝ ̸͎̊ẏ̷̟o̵̢͠ụ̶̄ ̸̗̐I̴̺̎ ̸͖͝w̴̮̑a̸̝͒s̴͙̾ ̵̠̋a̸̤͝ ̴͎͊l̷̝̍i̷̠̋c̷͙̍è̷͎n̷̨͋s̶̰̆e̶͓̍d̴͓̃ ̸̢̋s̸̮u̴̗̅ŗ̷̔g̴͔̓e̵̟͐o̷̧͒n̸̙̓?̴̖͑”**

“Ah, no, I don’t believe you did.”

**“A̵̓ͅf̶̗̉t̵̠̃è̶͇r̵͇͆ ̸̬͒I̶͝ͅ ̷͈̋g̸̲̎o̵̠̓t̵̤̕ ̷̪̕e̷̙̐x̶̛̰p̶̜͘ȇ̴͜l̵͇̍l̷͕̋ë̴͚́d̵̰̅,̶͜ ̴͓̔m̵̝͑ÿ̵̡ ̶̣p̸̣̈́ǎ̸̻r̸̜̊e̶͇̽n̵̳̊t̵̨̀s̷̞̅ ̷̖̑s̷͈̎ẹ̵̒ṋ̶̓ț̶͒ ̶̗̐m̷̲̊e̶̙͑ ̵͈͒t̷̙̚ŏ̴̞ ̵͈̌t̵̲̓h̶̺̚ė̵̱ ̴͙̊Š̸̜ṯ̷͝a̴̛̝t̷̖͘ẹ̸͒ŝ̴̨.̵̼͐ ̷̢͝S̷̻̒a̷̺̓i̵̠̔d̵̟́ ̸̹͊i̵̬͌f̵͍̚ ̷͚̊Ỉ̶͚ ̶̘̿w̷̼a̴̜̓s̶̱͌ ̴͇̌ğ̶̯o̴͈̾i̸̧͝n̵̤͑g̴͓̿ ̵̮̕ț̵̑o̶͇͠ ̴̺̌e̴͔͘x̸̹͠p̸̛̯ê̷̻r̸̰͆ị̸̇m̶̈͜e̶̡̎n̵͍̍t̸̲̄ ̴̡̛o̶̝͝n̷͙͝ ̵͉̂p̵̞̋e̷̲͘ö̶̲p̴̰͒l̶̗̊ȅ̷͙,̴̦͌ ̷̥̚I̵̡͒ ̸̺̀m̴̗͝ă̸̫y̵̯̅ ̶͘͜ä̶͍́s̸̞̏ ̴̥̍ẇ̴͉e̵͚̓l̶͇̔l̵̟͋ ̴̟͝g̵̖̐o̸̠ ̶͔̇ȉ̸͍n̷̠̿t̵͔͘ŏ̵̰ ̵͉̐m̴̓͜e̵̖̽d̴̳̓ḭ̴̚c̸͇͗i̵͓̔n̷͉͗e̶͕̎!̸̬͒”**

_Wilson Percival Higgsbury is the scion of a well-to-do noble family who sent their underperforming son to study medicine in the States. Not an uncommon practice for wealthy families to send their spoiled—_

“Wait, wait, wait, time the fuck out.” Willow stares at him incredulously. “You were sent away because you got kicked out of boarding school? For experimenting on _people_!?”

**“T̸̨̀h̵͚̘̔ŕ̵̤̟e̸̮̓̉ë̷̛͇́ ̸͙͐͘b̷̜͂o̸͉̅a̶̞̮͒r̷͓͋̌d̶͔̤͗i̴̫͊n̵̯̹̄͗g̵̤̟̕ ̴̠ś̴͓̞͒c̴̻h̶̪̋ǫ̶̉̐o̶̥̠̎l̴̯̬̇s̵̼̈́,̸̢̆̽ ̸̹̾a̷̤̞̔̅c̴̯̔̽t̷͙͝u̸͇͑a̴̢͠͝ͅl̶̽̾͜ḽ̵͔͌y̷͍̗͂̈́.̶̩̅̀”**

“But Maxwell never said—”

Wilson’s expression darkens, and his voice somehow sounds even more sinister than it did already. **“M̶̟̈́á̴͓̾x̷̲̮̓ẅ̵̞́e̶͍̻̒̿l̴͘ͅl̷̙͖̓ ̴͈͔͒d̸͍͒̈i̴̮͂d̷̨͝n̶̲̔’̴͔̯͆ṭ̴̘͂̌ ̸̨̳͠ķ̶̘̊n̴̝̈́o̷̖̊ẉ̶̫̓.̷̞͕͋ ̶̰̉ Ì̵͈ ̷̻̕n̸̙̍ḙ̴͠v̸̺̽̇e̵̺̐͝ȓ̷̦͙ ̷͙̭́ṭ̷͗ö̸̟́l̸̼̗̇d̵͚̘̋ ̸̘̭̌h̶̫͐i̷͍̓m̶̪̾͛.̵͈̈͘**

**W̶̱̣͊̏h̵̏ͅy̷̢͖̅̀ ̴̪̄w̴̝̉͝ồ̵̱u̶̾͐͜͜ļ̴͍̎̈́ḓ̸̅ ̷̤͙̅I̴͙͠͝ ̸̱̰̿h̶̢͐ͅa̸̛̫͘ͅv̴͔̾̇ḙ̸̬̑̋?̵̣͎͂̑ ̷̥̾̿͜S̵̗̼̈́o̸̥̳͒͌ ̴̻̜̈́̋ȟ̸͎̈́e̵̛̟̼̍ ̶̙̍c̷̈̌͜ỏ̵̠̓ụ̷́̒l̵̖͌d̶̖̦̾ ̸̣̔̍r̸̜̒͝e̶̱͝j̴̖̮̃̏e̷͙̤̔c̸̙͋͝ṭ̴͌͊ ̵͇̤͋m̵̛͖e̷͔̔̑,̷̝̞̇ ̴̼̈́l̷͕̆̓ḯ̶̡̠ḵ̶̰̈́̂ȅ̸̡̝͋ ̵̥͌̐e̴̠̥̓v̷͙͐ẻ̸̞̀r̷͔͆̑y̴̗̝̍õ̷̮n̴͒͜͜e̶͕̗̐̾ ̷͈̑̑e̸̲̔̈́l̴̻̃s̴̙̦̈́̑e̸̛͔̎?̶̤͍͗̽”**

“I do not think Uncle would reject you—"

**“W̵̯̾͜ḙ̶̖̈͝ļ̶̦̎l̴̘̀͛,̴̻̽̕ ̵̣͂I̸̥̱͒̋ ̵̥̗̏̋k̸̤̊n̸̤̳̒o̸͍̜̔w̸̛̰̣͂ ̵̦̉t̶͖̂͝ͅh̸͚̤̄a̶̺̿̃ẗ̵̪̇ ̸̛̰͎̄ _ņ̶̛̺̆ö̶͕ͅw̶̪̟͠_.̶͇̂ͅ ̸̠̗̉H̶̡̝͗̀e̵̤̍'̷̢̊̕s̶͔̈́͑ ̶̦͍̔ȁ̵̦̝͒ ̷̙̏s̶̩̭͝ị̸̞͒̔c̸̘̫̅ḱ̷̞̂ ̵̫̖̈̊l̵̥̲̒̕i̷͎̖̋t̸̺̲̾̕t̶̼̋l̴̳̓e̶̢͉͂̏ ̴͚̣̎p̵̫͌̈́ǘ̶̼p̵͉̍p̸̣͎̔̋y̸͔̓ ̶̠͖̐h̶̞͕̅͗ị̷̹͌͝m̷̹̤̓s̵̬̎͒e̸̢̺͗l̷̜̓̔f̴̘̅̍.̵̭͘͝”**

Wilson idly turns the Sword over in his hands.

**“B̴̖̈u̵̜͆ṫ̶͎ ̷̱̼̇̔ḧ̶̫̲́e̶̢̿ ̶̳͐͂ͅr̷̛̊ͅe̴̦͊j̶̡̤̒̉e̶̫̭͒c̵͚̬̒̽ṭ̶̘̆̉e̵͓̭̒̓ḏ̴̺͘̕ ̸̡̖̉͌m̸̠͕e̴̡͐ ̷͕̚a̸̺n̷̘͌y̸̝̎ẁ̴̝̖a̵̖̝̓̔y̶̪͂.̴̠̎ ̷͈̭͝E̴̫̅͛v̶̦̻̽͘e̴̟̘͗ŗ̷͙͛y̷͚̝͌o̸̢̙͂̒n̶̈ͅe̷̼͠ ̵̰̐͘ḏ̸̉͝ͅȯ̶̮̺e̷̢̎ͅs̴͓͠,̶̗̄ ̴̠̗͒ḯ̷̦̥͒n̸̫͈̕ ̶̭̼͛͘t̶̘͒h̶̭̺̃ȩ̷͖̉ ̶̫̑̀e̸͉̫͌̏ñ̸̯̞ḑ̴̹̌̽.̸̣̔͝”**

“I won’t.”

Wilson tsks again. **“D̵̡̃o̶͔͂̃ ̷̮̒̂ỵ̶̅̓ȯ̶̯̠ũ̸̙ ̸̢̭̋̚r̴̪͍̎e̴̬͒a̸̧̖̍̒ĺ̵̖͒l̸͖̦̈́y̴̳͐ ̶͈̳̉̆ẗ̴̡́h̴͓̓i̵̬̭̽n̵̥͉͗k̶̡̒͗ ̸͕̗̾I̸̮̣̐̉ ̶͙̬̍c̶̲͓͊à̶̙̿ṅ̸͖'̶͍̏ṭ̸͙̚ ̶͈͝ş̶̞̊ë̸̻́e̸̮̾ ̸̢̻͑h̸̡͋͠o̷̤͛w̷̝̥͠͝ ̶͕̳̈́ḥ̷͂̀ạ̷͝ṛ̶͠d̸͍͚̏ ̸͉̾y̴̯̑̓ô̶̪̳̆ų̷̲̈̓'̸͎̈́r̸̗̉e̶͎͎̾́ ̷͕̄ć̷̠l̸͓̿u̴͖͑͠ͅt̷̪̬͘c̶̲̖̍͋h̵͎̐͌ì̴̭̳n̵͕̑ĝ̵͓̤͝ ̴̤̓B̸̞̈͝e̵̮̍r̷̻̤͑n̵̦̪͂i̵͕̐͐ë̸͕́̅?̷̞͚̚͝”**

“J-Just because you’re more batshit than I ever dreamed possible doesn’t mean I don’t love you, dumb nerd. Now put the Sword down, before it fucks your brain even more.”

Wilson casually runs his fingers over the side of the blade. It feels warm and cold at once. Light, but with enough heft to swing with some force behind it. Translucent, billows like smoke, but feels like steel. Cuts like steel. Cuts like a dream.

**“M̵͇̞̉̾ä̴̡̦ÿ̷̩́̏b̶̬̈́͝ê̴̡̑ͅ ̵͔̒̽Ì̴͜'̵̭m̶͓̙̆ ̶̢̛g̸̢̦͋̂o̵͜͝i̷̦̓̎n̸̡̹͗g̶̖̑ͅ ̶͈̪̂a̷̳͛b̵̲̌͠o̵͚̯͆͊u̸͎͓̓ţ̴̍ ̸̓ͅt̴̫͗̆h̷̡̡̊ī̷̧̝̔s̷̻͓̉͘ ̶͇a̵̲̠͌l̶̨̻̕l̶͇̄̊ ̷͖̿w̵͕̍̂r̵̳̰̓̾ö̸̝́̉n̴̯̆͆g̶̯̠̐.̶̙̭͗͌”**

“Uh. . .yeah. M-Maybe just a little, you dork. N-Now come on, you’re making us all nervous with that thing.”

**“D̶̠̑͛o̷͝ͅ ̶͙͎͌̚y̵̜̔̚õ̵̞̤u̸̯ ̶̫̠͠t̸̨̻͘h̴͉̣͛i̶̜͑̈ņ̵̮̽k̴̻͋.̴̲̟͗̉ ̴̠͑̅.̷͔̃ ̴̱̀.̵͈͈̾͊m̸̙͒a̸͙̾y̷̲̑͑b̵̫̘̔̅é̵̗̓ ̴̛̻͠M̶͙̉a̴̢͂x̸̩͍͌̈́w̵̱̆͝e̶̤̼͒̓l̴̨̎̿l̸̞͛ͅ ̴̤͓̀w̷͚̬͑o̶̘̎̚ư̷̼̆l̴̲̀d̶̨͛̋ ̵̡̆̚w̷̫̠̑͝ḁ̶̈̒n̵͖̎͘t̴̼̒ ̶̺̌ _m̵̟̌y̵̨͑̕_ ̷̪̒̊ȟ̵̰ȩ̴̩͒͐a̶̰͆r̷͍̼̄t̷̙͈̊,̵̜̳ ̴͙̿i̷̠̠̔n̷̥̝͑ś̶̈́͜t̶̘̍͑ẻ̴̪̜a̶̹̝̎d̴̬͖͊̍?̶̋͂ͅ”**

“Heh, I think Maxwell already has your—wait, no. _Wait, no!_ **_Wilson, no!_** ”

Every Survivor is now on their feet.

“WILSON!”

“WILSÖN!”

“WILSON!”

“SCIENCE MAN!”

_WILSON!_

“WILSON!”

“MR. WILSON!”

_“OOOOO!”_

“WILSON!”

**“R̵̙̞̈͌e̷̫̺̅l̵̖̕a̴̰̤̔̄x̷̧̺̊.̶̜͇̈́”**

Wilson rips open his shirt and waistcoat, letting them sag wetly off his shoulders and into the mud.

**“ ̸̼̼I̴̳̜͋'̶͖́m̶̠͆ ̷̡͊́a̶̞͚ ̴̙͝͠ṗ̸͔ř̷̯o̸͍͇͊f̵̯̃̿ḙ̶͋̇s̷̟̳͒s̵̪̫̿i̷̩̼̓o̶̡͔͌n̵̖̋̚ā̵̟̖̂ḽ̴͚͋̚.̵̺͗”**

_He did not wear his scarlet coat_

There is not a single moment of hesitation as he plunges the Sword right into his sternum and pushes it down as hard as he can.

_His soul was resolute, and held_

_No hiding-place for fear_

The scream that follows is nearly identical to the one from the night of the “exorcism.” The piercing whistling shriek of steam escaping a boiling Wobster's shell. A molten trumpet with Harmon mute inserted, gradually crushed beneath a hydraulic press. The guttural wail of a man being burned alive.

_The Doctor said that Death was but_

_A scientific fact_

The harsh, throat-flaying wail of a man struggling to saw through his own breastbone with a Sword that keeps slipping in his grasp, slick with rain and blood.

_For blood and wine are red_

_And blood and wine were on his hands_

The Sword is stuck, and Wilson wriggles it further down. His cries grind away the tissue of his throat like pumice, but luckily the blood is there as well to facilitate lubrication.

_And all the woe that moved him so_

_That he gave that bitter cry_

_For he who lives more lives than one_

_More deaths than one must die_

The blood is in his throat. The blood is in his chest. His mouth vomits blood. His chest vomits blood.

_The morning wind began to moan_

_The very mud cried out for blood_

Somewhere in the din, amidst the returning thunder, amidst the screams and sobs of the other Survivors, amidst the terrible cracking and sawing of Nightmare through bone, excited whispers can be heard. And a woman’s quiet laugh, as cold and relentless as the rain.

_Alas! it is a fearful thing_

_To feel another's guilt!_

_For, right within, the sword of Sin_

_Pierced to its poisoned hilt,_

_And as molten lead were the tears we shed_

_For the blood we had not spilt_

Wilson’s screaming has stopped, though the weeping and wailing of the Survivors has not; his lungs must have given out by now. How was he still standing? How was he still _alive?_ There was probably an _actual_ scientific explanation, but Wilson was in no condition to give it. If he could even form words at this point, there is no way they would be audible through all the blood pouring from his mouth.

_Out of his mouth a red, red rose!_

_Out of his heart a white!_

And through the frantic pleas of his friends all begging him to stop.

_But neither milk-white rose nor red_

_May bloom in prison air;_

_The shard, the pebble, and the flint,_

_Are what they give us there:_

_For flowers have been known to heal_

_A common man's despair_

For one brief second, it seemed like the Survivors had gotten through to him.

_And what should Human Pity do_

_Pent up in Murderers' Hole?_

_What word of grace in such a place_

_Could help a brother's soul?_

But then he reaches into the gaping wound with two Shadow-cloaked claws and pries his sternum apart with a horrendous, splintering snapping and another agonized scream. Like standing on one end of an old wooden plank and attempting to break it in half with one’s hands, but finding it too damp and warped to do more than shred into splinters and pulp.

_And the sky above my head became_

_Like a casque of scorching steel;_

_And, though I was a soul in pain,_

_My pain I could not feel_

Wilson weakly raises the Sword and musters up what is left of his rapidly-depleting strength to cut through what fibers and tissue are keeping his heart attached, and tears it out of his own chest cavity in a spray of gore.

_But though lean Hunger and green Thirst_

_Like asp with adder fight,_

_We have little care of prison fare,_

_For what chills and kills outright_

_Is that every stone one lifts by day_

_Becomes one's heart by night_

No one knows how he is still standing. No one knows how he is still alive _._ No one knows how his heart can still contract in his clawed hand, beating in time with the synthetic heart he'd created, if only for a few seconds.

_The vilest deeds like poison weeds_

_Bloom well in prison-air:_

_It is only what is good in Man_

_That wastes and withers there:_

_Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,_

_And the Warder is Despair_

And then it stops.

And then he stops.

Falling face-first into the mud.

_Something was dead in each of us,_

_And what was dead was Hope_

And in what would almost be comical were it not for that grotesque display of impromptu field cardiothoracic surgery, Wilson’s corpse vanishes in a puff of smoke, leaving behind only a Skeleton and a very confused-looking spiky-haired Ghost.

The anguished cries of the Survivors have died down, but only because half of them, namely Wolfgang, Warly, Woodie, Wigfrid, and Webber, had fainted upon viewing the scientist holding his tribute to the Black King he'd excised from his own body. Either that, or they’d all finally passed out from hyperventilation-induced hypoxia.

The only one who hasn’t stopped screaming is Willow.

_For his mourner will be outcast men,_

_And outcasts always mourn._

Wickerbottom reaches out to hold her but is shoved away, and she streaks off into the direction of the Tents.

Wendy, meanwhile, slowly approaches Wilson’s spirit on trembling legs. She then collects the still-beating synthetic heart and sort of. . .shoves it into his ectoplasm.

Wilson crackles with electricity—a seemingly different kind than before—and is bathed in a brilliant flash of light before dropping on his backside, fully corporeal.

“Oof! Ow.” He gets to his feet. “So _that’s_ what it does! Good thinking, Wendy! That was—”

Wilson's eyes roll and he collapses back into mud. Behind him, a shaking Wes, makeup running off in the rain, holds a Ham Bat.

_Sorry, Wilson._

“Smart thinking, both of you. Here.” Wickerbottom hands both Wes and Wendy some Taffy, hoping she’d managed to mask the trembling of her hands and had hidden her distress well enough beneath her usual stern demeanor. “Chew on this while I attend to the others.”

She drags the unconscious Wilson up by the collar. “For your sake, I do hope you weren’t joking about building that distillery, scientist. Loathe as I am to set a poor example for the children, you owe me a good English malt.”

_The coward does it with a kiss,_

_The brave man with a sword._

□■□■□■□■

For the first time in her life, Willow didn’t care about getting wet.

For the first time in her life, Willow didn’t care that she was technically exercising.

For the first time in her life, Willow wasn’t running from her own poor choices, beyond being friends with a deranged lunatic scientist.

For the first time in her life, Willow wonders how Wilson could make running in heels look so easy.

For what was probably the several hundredth time in her life, Willow was running out of the frying pan and into the fire, to turn a phrase.

But she didn’t know what else to do.

_“MAAAAXWELLLLL!”_

The rain was coming down in sheets, and the thunder was rolling in earnest. Lightning is thankfully drawn away by all the Lightning Rods, but she still flinches and shrinks toward the ground each time it strikes.

_“MAAAA-HAX-WELLLLL!”_

For the first time in her life, Willow doesn’t care that Maxwell will see her sobbing so hard she can barely breathe.

**“MAAAAXWELLLLL! MAAAAX—”**

For the first time in her life, Willow never thought she’d be happier to see something she once described as “even grosser than the real one” as she runs headlong into a Shadow Puppet holding an Umbrella.

For the first time in her life, Willow clings to that Shadow clone of Maxwell and bawls into its chest.

The Puppet hesitantly pats her head as she cries. Then it touches her shoulder to get her attention and holds something out to her.

A cigar.

Still choking on heaving sobs and ragged breaths, Willow wipes her nose in her drenched shirt and puts the cigar between her lips. She fumbles with her Lighter, her hands shaking too hard to ignite it properly.

The Puppet gently closes its hands over hers to steady them and ignites the Lighter for her, carefully bringing the flame to the end of the cigar.

Its hands are warm.

The Fuel is warm.

The smoke fills her mouth and immediately settles her nerves, which seemed odd for an item made of nightmares. It doesn’t taste any different than a normal cigar; earthy, a bit like cedar, and slightly floral. Did it even contain nicotine? Could Maxwell just whip up actual tobacco, despite it not existing in The Constant?

It’s strong, though, whatever it is, and it leaves her feeling a little lightheaded. Though that could also be the hyperventilation that had been happening up to now, coupled with physical exertion.

The Puppet takes her hand and leads her over to Maxwell’s Tent. The shroud of Shadow is gone, as are the Duelists. It opens the flap for her and gently ushers her inside.

Maxwell is sitting up on his Fur Roll, waiting. He is white as a sheet and looks exhausted, despite all the sleeping he'd been doing lately. The bags under his eyes could be checked as luggage. The bowl of Creamy Potato Purée sits off to the side, untouched, along with the letters.

In his lap are several Logs and Grass Tufts, which he then presents to her.

And Willow builds a small Campfire right in the middle of the Tent, exercising an impressive amount of restraint in keeping it low enough to keep from torching Maxwell’s Tent and everything inside.

But she sits down right on top of it, just in case.

“One day you’ll tell me how you do that without burning to death.”

“M-Magic.”

Maxwell snorts.

“. . .Y-You look like shit.”

“Pot, kettle, et cetera.” Maxwell hands her one of his pocket squares. “Wipe your face.”

Willow half-expects him to add something like “because it disgusts me,” but he does not. She removes the cigar briefly and does as instructed.

“. . .H-How did you know I used to smoke?”

“Something told me you would have tried it at least once. If you enjoy sitting _in_ fire, and attempting to _bathe_ with fire, then inhaling toxic substances just because they were _on fire_ didn’t seem like too much of a stretch.”

“Pretty good deduction skills.”

“Though cold reading comes with the stage magician territory, believe me when I say this really wasn’t a difficult thing to surmise.”

Willow exhales. “You grew up poor too, didn’t you.”

Maxwell lies down on his side, propping up his head on one fist. “What makes you say that?”

“Because the only time I smoked cigars was when I wanted to impress people. . .or feel fancy. Plus Wilson grew up rich and tries to _mostly_ downplay his fancy habits while you play them up.”

“Clever little waif, aren’t you? Yes, I was raised in London's East End, if you can believe it.”

“So you know how to speak the kind of English where nobody knows what the hell you’re saying?”

“Cockney slang? Yes, I know it. No, I will not prove it.”

“Tight-ass. No fun allowed.”

“By royal decree of your King. No fun ever.”

“. . .it’s kind of freaking me out to see you act so. . .normal.”

“. . .I suppose I'm simply too tired to be prickly right now.”

“Eating usually helps with that.” Willow frowns at the untouched food. “You really don’t look so good.”

“Not going to preface that with ‘say, pal?’”

“. . .Shit, I didn’t think of that. Fuck. Too late to make that joke now.” Willow folds her arms. “Seriously, though, Maxwell, you look like you’ve got one foot in the grave. And I just. . .” Willow holds her forehead, putting anxiously on her cigar. “I can’t deal with anybody else dying right now. I'm gonna. . .”

She covers her face with her hands. “I-I'm g-gonna lose my goddamn mind.”

“Anybody _else?_ Is that what has you so shaken?”

“Y-You didn’t hear all the fucking _screaming_?”

“I heard _you_.” He pauses. “I thought I heard Ţ̴h̴̖ě̶͉m̷̫̓, but admittedly, I was actively trying to block Ţ̴h̴̖ě̶͉m̷̫̓ out.”

He sits back up, gracefully folding his long legs to the side—something Willow had never actually seen a _man_ do. She’d probably laugh and tease him about it if she wasn’t still so upset.

“Let me guess. It was _that_ idiot.”

 _Everyone_ knew who _that idiot_ was, especially Willow. She pulls at her hair.

“Why couldn’t you just accept his apology!?”

“Because I do not accept it. He can stew a while longer for all I care.”

“For _fuck's sake,_ Maxwell! Do you know how fucked up he is over this!? This petty bullshit _has_ to stop! It is _literally_ driving him insane!”

“That sounds like a _him_ problem and not a _me_ problem.”

“It’s an _everybody_ problem! Swallow your fucking pride for once in your goddamn life and just— _just_ _fucking_ — _fuck!_ ”

Willow suddenly seizes Maxwell around his tie, much to the latter’s surprise, and yanks him forward until his face is inches from hers. “Do you know what he fucking did today? He snuck out before dawn and went ‘hunting.’ Apparently Abby told him he sucked at expressing his feelings, which he took super-personally because of course he did, and then that went through the wackadoodle filter and he decided the best way to show you he cared was to cut out the heart of every fucking thing he came across and wrap them all up in a present for you.”

Maxwell blinks. “. . .he _what?_ ”

“There was a Ewecus heart in there. There was a _Varg_ heart in there. A fucking _Varg_ heart! How could he even track them in this stupid fucking rain!? How the fuck could he even take on a Varg _by_ _himself!?_

_And then he decided that **still** wasn’t enough and fucking **cut out his own heart** in front of everybody!”_

Willow releases him and Maxwell straightens, raising an astonished hand to his mouth. Willow isn’t sure what’s going to happen first, his eyes falling out of his sockets or his lower jaw snapping off and dropping into his lap. Either seemed plausible.

What she wasn’t expecting was a giant grin to overtake his face.

_“What the fuck are you smiling about, you fucking psychopath!?”_

“I-I'm not!”

_“You **are**! I'm looking **right** at you, you fucking dick! **What the fuck is your fucking** **problem**!?”_

Maxwell raises his hands in defense. “I s-swear I'm not— _hee hee!”_

 _“Now you’re **laughing**!?”_ Willow’s face is screwed up in fury; she seizes Maxwell by the lapels and gives him a hard shake. _“You think this is **funny**!? A big fucking **joke**!?”_

_It’s thought to be a form of submission hard-wired into our brains by years of evolution. Nervous laughter, that is. Nothing diffuses a tense situation quite like laughter._

Only Higgsbury had met William Carter. And only Higgsbury knew what William Carter's anxiety-induced giggling sounded like.

“It’s— _heeheehee!_ —reflex! A-A reflex!”

_“WELL, **STOP**! STOP BEFORE I FUCKING BURN YOU ALIVE!”_

This was all Higgsbury’s fault, in more ways than one. He'd thought he'd be cute and poke around in his brains. . .somehow, and now some of the old William parts Maxwell thought he'd eradicated were beginning to resurface.

Like his imbecilic nervous tics.

He would also be lying if he said the prospect of Higgsbury being so enamored with him that he’d literally offer Maxwell his heart didn't make him feel a little, well. . . _giddy._

But it really _was_ mostly discomfort and strain.

**_“I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU! I'LL INCINERATE YOU SO HARD YOUR ASHES WILL GO UP IN FLAMES! YOU HEAR ME!? DO YOU HEAR ME, YOU FUCKING USELESS OLD SACK OF FUCK!?”_ **

Willow is sobbing again, and she releases his lapels to pound on his chest with her fists. Her cigar lays abandoned on the ground.

**_“I HATE YOU! I FUCKING HATE YOU! WILSON IS BROKEN AND IT’S ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT!”_ **

She buries her face in his chest, gripping him so tightly he can feel his bones crack.

_“He d-doesn’t deserve this. . .W-Wilson d-doesn't deserve this. . .”_

Maxwell tentatively, awkwardly, pats her back. At least he'd managed to wrest back control of himself.

“. . .he seems to think he does.”

_You and I both got what we deserved._

“T-Then h-he's a f-fucking i-idiot.”

Maxwell sighs. “Yes, but he’s _our_ fucking idiot, isn’t he.”

Willow chokes out a muffled, watery chuckle, and Maxwell relaxes somewhat. Then she remembers she’s supposed to still be angry and thumps him on the shoulder with her fist. “I'm s-still m-mad at you.”

“I know.”

Willow is quiet for several minutes, save for her sniffling and hitching breaths.

“. . .W-Wilson got sent to America because he wouldn’t stop experimenting on his schoolmates.”

“. . .I shouldn’t be surprised, and yet, I am. Strange he never told me this.”

“He made it sound like he didn’t want to blow it with his radio boyfriend at the time.”

“. . .I've been called many things, but ‘radio boyfriend’ is certainly. . .a thing.” Maxwell runs a hand through his hair. “But I suppose this means Higgsbury’s always been a little. . . _touched_. I admit at the time I was so focused on the Door that the extent of his. . . _eccentricities_ wasn’t immediately apparent.”

“. . .He really makes it sound like his parents were stuffy loveless noble jerks. Seeing how clingy he can get makes me think it wasn’t exaggeration. The way he takes everything super personal and is obsessed with his ‘reputation’ as Gentleman Scientist or whatever makes me think they really fucked him up. He seems so desperate to make people care about shit, then expects everybody to leave the second he fucks something up. Which is all the time, because Wilson.”

“. . .you of all people should know what neglect can do to a person.”

Willow falls silent. Maxwell’s voice is. . .surprisingly gentle.

“. . .is that why you started lighting fires? So people will pay attention? So that someone, anyone, will see you?”

Willow looks up, glaring, and thumps Maxwell on the chest. “Don’t. . .don’t try to psychoanalyze me, you old prick. What about _you,_ huh? With your stupid magic tricks and your stupid statues of your stupid self all over the goddamn place?” Every sentence is punctuated with an emphatic strike to his chest. “‘Look at me! Notice me! Pay attention to me! I'm Maxwell! I'm important! There’s nobody here but dumb shit I made and the sorry fucks I tricked into coming here, but they'll sure as hell all know who I am!’ Fucking _pathetic._ ”

Maxwell is rather impressed with himself for managing to keep his temper under control until this point. The hand that had been holding the top of Willow’s head now tightens in her hair.

“That’s right, yank my hair out. Yank my stitches out, while you’re at it. Crack my head back open. Slap me across my insolent mouth, I know you’re itching to. Does it make you feel like a _man?_ Like a _King?_ Smacking a little girl around because she’s getting a little too lippy with _His Majesty?_

I’m not afraid of you. The Queen has bigger balls than you. She only waits ‘til it’s dark, but she still ripped me to shreds with her own two claws. That’s more than _you've_ ever done. You killed me. . .how many times did you say? Three hundred and twenty-one? But you never _once_ did it yourself. But the _Queen_ , oh man. What a lady. That freaky, freaky darkness bitch. Gotta love her. Never shied away from getting her royal hands dirty. You better thank your lucky stars Wilson took that hit for you while I was getting that fire going, because if it wasn’t for both of us, she would have ripped off your gross old dick and wrinkly prune balls and made you eat them right before ripping apart the rest of you, piece by piece.

_So go on, do it. Do what Charlie does that you never could. Be a **man**. Be a **real** fucking Nightmare King. Hit me. Hurt me. Kill me. Finish the job. Do it. **Fucking do it, you coward. Kill me. KILL ME. RIGHT NOW. DO IT! FUCKING DO IT!** **KILL ME! KILL ME!**_

**_I T ’ S W H A T I D E S E R V E !_** ”

It’s Maxwell that actually initiates the hug this time, cradling her head against his chest.

“Mouthy little urchin,” he murmurs. “Don’t be ridiculous. You've just had a rough morning, is all.”

Willow sinks into his arms and allows herself to be held.

“. . .I killed people, Maxwell.”

“Who _hasn’t_ engaged in a little murder from time to time?”

“I'm _serious_.”

“As am I. You could throw a stone in camp and hit someone who’s killed a man. Wolfgang was military. Joined the circus afterwards but voluntarily served again during the Great War, I believe. Higgsbury’s probably ‘accidentally’ botched a surgery or two. I wouldn’t be shocked if _the mime_ did something.”

“. . .what _is_ your deal with Wes, anyway.”

“He displeased me.”

“What did he do?”

_“He displeased me.”_

Willow scoffs. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“Pots and kettles, Ms. Willow.” His voice softens. “I am the last person to pass judgement on you for what you may or may not have done. Though I _do_ hope you at least started with those shrewish old orphanage caretakers.”

“. . .they were the first.”

“Attagirl.”

“. . .but I didn’t mean to. I just. . .wanted to get away from the Shadows.”

“. . .that is one thing I have never quite figured out. You were born about eight or nine years after Higgsbury, correct? So I would likely have been gone by the time you. . .awakened, shall we say. I wonder if the Shadows entered our old world when T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ first brought me here.”

“So that _wasn’t_ you, then. I'm glad you waited until I was a _totally_ well-adjusted adult to start torturing me.”

“You gave it back to me as good as I could give it.”

“You’re such a dick. I hate you.”

Maxwell’s chest rumbles with a quiet laugh as he pets her hair. “I hate you, too, pal.”

“. . .so when do you plan on telling Wilson how much you hate _him_?”

“. . .persistent little firebug, you are. Like that mutt with his Eyebone.” He sighs. “I. . . _suppose_. . .I’ve kept that idiot stewing long enough, if he’s that much of a wreck without me.”

“What were you saying about pots and kettles? Because _you’ve_ been a complete wreck without _him_.”

“. . .Hmph. I just let my Fuel reserves get too low after trying to draw all those Shadows out of Higgsbury, that’s all. My humours needed time to rebalance.”

Willow looks up at him with a wry grin. “Are you _really_ trying to blame all this on some sort of Nightmare Fuel anemia? We were doing so well, Maxwell! Having a murder-bonding hate moment and everything!”

“Tch. You were getting mucus all over my suit. Now get out of my lap.”

“Guess you’re feeling better, too, if you can be all prickly again.” She crawls out of his lap and reaches over to grab the Purée from the previous night. “Now come on, eat up.” She raises a spoon to his mouth. “Here comes the train! Choo-choo!”

“Ugh, trains. And I can feed myself, thanks. I may be old, but I'm not an invalid.”

“Okay, then eat.”

“. . .it’s cold.”

“Then I'll heat it up for you, you big baby.” She pats down her clothing. “The hell did I do with my Lighter?”

She then slooooowly raises her head to squint at Maxwell.

“What?”

“Give it.”

“Oh, so because I'm practiced in prestidigitation, I automatically pinched your Lighter just because _you_ can’t find it?” Maxwell conjures up a cigar—and ignites it with Willow’s Lighter. “This is an outrage. I'm outraged.”

Willow laughs. “You slippery old skate! How'd you do that?”

Maxwell clasps the Lighter between his gloved palms. When he opens them, it’s gone.

“Where is it now?”

“What are you talking about? Do I look like I know where all your misplaced items are? You probably left it in your skirt pocket.”

Willow reaches into her pocket—

“There’s _no way_ you replaced it that—”

—and pulls out her Lighter.

“—fast.”

Maxwell grins.

No, not exactly. This wasn’t his usual cocky Maxwell grin.

This was a _smile._

An actual, honest-to-God _smile. A **warm** one._

Willow had never seen William Carter. But she swears that must be what he had looked like.

She couldn’t wait to tell Wilson.

. . .Wilson. . .

“Hmm? What’s the matter?” All too soon, his smile fades. “I thought it was a pretty good trick.”

“No, it was. I'm sorry, you've been trying to comfort me this whole time, but I'm. . .still kinda messed up.” She warms the bowl with her Lighter, now that it’s back in her possession. “I wasn’t expecting that nerd's little surgery demonstration to rattle me so much. And bring up a bunch of other shit I thought I left behind a long time ago.”

“. . .that makes two of us.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Willow frowns, stirring the potatoes.

“. . .why are you being so nice to me?”

“Heh. You've been taking care of me, haven’t you? I never liked owing a favor.”

“. . .that’s not the reason and you know it.”

Maxwell takes a pull of his cigar.

“. . .You’re honest. You’ve got backbone to spare. I can respect that.

I once told Higgsbury he and I were similar after he gave me a load of sanctimonious schlock when I'd returned here. And I was correct in my assessment. Though maybe a little _too_ on-the-nose, in light of recent events. . .

We all have something in common. That’s why I brought you all here. But some of us. . .might have more in common than others. There is nothing a con man hates more than his own reflection. And you are my mirror, I suppose. A reminder of when I was someone I despised. But has that really changed. . .?”

“Maxwell. . .”

“‘When a person cannot deceive himself the chances are against his being able to deceive other people.’ And as you know, I am a master of deceit.

. . .I don’t even know why I'm telling you this.”

Willow holds out the bowl of Potato Purée.

“It’s just the Fuel anemia that’s got you all out of sorts.”

Maxwell looks at her strangely before realizing she’s trying to help him save face. She was disturbed enough after Higgsbury’s little stunt, and his sudden inexplicable desire to be honest with her—with himself—for a change, was probably a little too much to handle right now.

Or she was simply being nice. Which was equally disturbing, really.

“. . .yes, I suppose you’re right.

. . .thank you.”

“Just eat, yeah? Please?”

“Yes, yes. Mustn’t let a precious commodity like food go to waste out here. And Warly _did_ go out of his way to make this for me. It would be a personal insult _not_ to eat it.”

Willow takes his cigar and puts in her mouth instead. “I'll keep this warm for you.”

Maxwell snorts. “You’re a peach.”

Willow builds the fire back up—just a little—and sits back down in it.

“That _cannot_ be comfortable.”

“The Logs hurt my butt.”

Maxwell snickers through a mouthful of mashed potato, and Willow relaxes.

“. . .Would you say we're friends, Maxwell?”

“. . .I'd say we're. . .acquaintances.”

“Sounds like ‘friends' to me, just in Maxwell-speak. Just like ‘that idiot' is Maxwell for ‘the scientist whose ass I'm going to destroy.’”

Maxwell chokes on his food, leading into a coughing fit.

“BUT I JUST REMEMBERED. Before you destroy his ass! No Fuel contact!”

“C-Can this conversation wait until _after_ I've eaten? Better yet, can we simply _not have this conversation at all?_ ”

“But you have to resist the dark power that is Wilson’s delectable scientific behind! And we _all_ know how well you resist dark forces. Just saying.”

_“Willow.”_

“So no kissing on the mouth, no lubing him up with Nightmare Fuel, no letting him suck your fingers or your dick, wear gloves if you’re going to fist him, don’t have a Shadow Puppet orgy—holy crap you are blushing _so hard._

Did you know your ears turn red, too? Like, your whole neck, even. I've seen Wilson's face turn purple over less, but this is pretty great.”

**_“W̴̭͊̎̆ị̵͔̹̠̈́͂̎̉̀l̶̩̙͚͓͚̈́͛l̷̙͎̻̞͛ǫ̴͇̳̕w̶͇̰̰̺͗̓́̚͜.”_ **

“I can’t hear you when you cover your face with your hands like that, Maxwell.”

**“I̶̯͊ ̸̯̈́r̷̟̃e̴͝ͅg̷͙͆r̴͎̋ḛ̵̔t̴̜̅ ̸̤̎e̶͈̒v̶̟͐e̵̩͝r̴̭̽ ̸̼̀t̸̢̓r̸̬̈́e̸̪͑a̶̢̚t̵̨̾i̵͔͌n̴̼̄g̴͇̊ ̷̧͝y̴̝͛o̴̹̾ȗ̶͔ ̶̤͊l̸̖̉i̸̍͜k̴̘̎e̴̩̔ ̵̙̈́a̸̦̕ ̴̠̍h̷͓̚u̷̜͐m̵̆ͅa̴͔̕n̴̨͝ ̵͉̋b̶̩̏e̵̠̕i̴̪͠n̵̟̔g̵̜̿.̴͇”**

“Aww, don’t be like that. If you can’t talk about sex stuff with me, who _can_ you talk about it with?”

Maxwell removes his hands to rub his temples, closing his eyes and heaving the most tortured sigh. One even Wigfrid would tell him was too dramatic. “I'd _imagine_ the person with whom I'd hypothetically be copulating in the first place. And dare I ask how you even know so much about my biology?”

“I just kind of assumed that since you bleed Fuel, and spit Fuel, you'd probably jizz Fuel, too.”

“. . .I'd probably _what?_ ”

“ _Jizz_. Like _jism_ , but the verb form? _Ejaculate_ , then, Mr. Proper. And while I _didn’t_ actually know, you just confirmed it for me.”

Maxwell inhales deeply through his nose.

“We were on three hundred and twenty-one, you said?”

“Nice try, but we've already established you don’t have the ball—AUUUGGHH!”

A small, serpentine Shadow slithers out of the open pages of the Codex Umbra now in Maxwell’s hand. Willow falls backwards, still yelling, and holds Bernie at arm's length in front of her like a shield.

Maxwell laughs. . .until he realizes Willow isn’t going to stop yelling anytime soon.

“Willow, it was a _joke!_ _Willow! **Willow!**_ ”

A Shadow Hand rises from the ground and slaps her, just hard enough to bring her back to reality. “Snap out of it! He's not hostile! Calm down!”

Willow stares at him incredulously, eyes wide and breathing hard. She hugs Bernie tightly against her chest.

“It was _supposed_ to be a little practical joke. This is Mr. Skitts. He's harmless. See?”

He holds out a hand, and the little bulbous-headed serpent creature slithers up his arm and sits on his shoulder.

“You’ve likely seen him already. If you've ever watched me summon a Puppet or manipulated the Obelisks, you've seen him floating around. As far as I'm aware, his only purpose is to spook everyone a little. Hence why I summoned him.”

Mr. Skitts blinks his little mismatched eyes, opens his little fanged maw, and makes a little squeak.

“. . .t-that’s the Shadow that was loving on Wilson the other day.”

“Yes, that was him.

. . .I apologize, I did not take into account that those childhood memories of being tormented by Terrorbeaks would still be fresh in your mind. I suppose I need to work on my japes. Serves me right for trying go against my true curmudgeonly nature.” Maxwell turns to the Shadow. “Go say hello to Ms. Willow. She’s a friend of the scientist.”

Mr. Skitts cocks his head to the side like a puppy, uncomprehending. Maxwell rolls a small, wispy ball of swirling Shadow from his fingertips, which takes the form of a minute spiky-haired figure before vanishing. “Him.”

Mr. Skitts squeals and rushes over to Willow, curling up in her lap.

“What did I tell you? Harmless.”

“. . .Huh. You know, he’s. . .kinda cute, in a goofy way.” Willow hesitantly pats the Shadow’s head. “Yeah, you’re just a weird little doof, aren’tcha?”

Mr. Skitts makes that same warped, garbled purr he had made with Wilson.

“. . .I also forget that not everyone’s mind can heal itself as mine does. Which isn’t a boast—it’s a skill nearly two decades in the making, if Higgsbury’s math is correct. And you've had a hellish morning.” Two Shadow Hands rise from the ground to set a Garland on her head. “There we are.”

“I mean, I already have the fire, but. . .thanks, Maxwell.”

“Don’t mention it.” He sets the now-empty bowl to the side. “About Higgsbury. . .has he been revived yet?”

“. . .I don’t know. I didn’t stick around.” Willow rubs her forehead. “Shit, I abandoned Wickerbottom and Wendy. They were the only two that didn’t faint the second Wilson tore out his own heart.

I was today-years-old when I learned you can live a few seconds without a heart. And that it'll still beat a few times after it’s removed. Thanks for the science lesson, nerd.” Willow rubs her own temples. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“. . .I'm so sorry.”

Willow looks up.

“. . .It was not my intention to cause problems for the entire camp. Again.”

“Heh, Wilson said the exact same thing yesterday.” Willow absently rubs the Poultice on her arm.

“He. . .he hurt you?”

“Huh? Oh, this? It’s not that bad. I provoked him while he was insane and he dug his claws in my arm. Webber took a chomp out of his neck and snapped him out of it before he could do any real damage. He used Salve _and_ a Poultice, the dummy. He’s so anal about infection. Oh, crap, he’s gonna be peeved I got my stitches wet—”

“Wait, wait, wait. Hold that thought a moment.” Maxwell holds up his hands, eyes closed. Then he clasps them together, fingers steepled, and tips them towards Willow. _“Claws.”_

“. . .oh, yeah, you missed it. He turned his arm into Shadow somehow?”

“Like this?”

Maxwell’s entire right arm is cloaked in rippling, writhing Shadow, his already-clawed fingers now extending further into razor-thin points. Like Wilson’s, the Shadows stop at the shoulder, but Maxwell’s appear much more. . .violent, somehow. Severe.

“. . .yeah. Almost exactly.”

“Did you perchance see the inside of his mouth?”

“Yeah, I checked. No Shadows.”

“No, I mean. . .his teeth, his tongue. Were they normal?”

“Uh. . .I think so. Why?”

“. . .Really? You've never noticed? Granted, it’s not always so readily apparent, but. . .”

Maxwell opens his mouth, revealing two rows of perfectly-serrated, nearly uniform teeth. Too many, in fact. So many that there doesn’t appear to be any missing, and Willow _knows_ she had seen Maxwell spit out a tooth after Wilson broke his nose.

But what really stands out are his upper and lower canines, now long enough to poke past his lips and curving inward like the fangs of a viper. All Willow can think is that they would not come out easily should they sink into the meat between one’s neck and shoulder. . .like a scientist’s, perhaps.

“Oh, shit. No, Wilson didn’t have anything like that going on. What’s this about tongues, though?”

Maxwell _unfurls_ his tongue. Long, a discolored dusky purple, and forked at the end.

“. . . _holy shit_. That’s. . .that’s. . .”

“Hideous? Horrifying?”

“So _cool!_ ”

Maxwell. . .actually blushes a second time. “. . .Pardon?”

“ _Dude._ That’s _really_ fucking cool. No wonder Wilson’s so horny for you!”

“I, err. . .what?”

“You know how Wilson is about weird shit. He's gotta pick and poke apart everything, figure out how stuff works. With how long he babbled about your claws, I'm surprised he never thought to check out your mouth!”

“Err, yes, well. . .”

“Can you do cool stuff with it?”

“. . .Like?”

“I dunno, make a corkscrew out of it?”

“. . .Why on earth would I. . .?” He's so taken aback he decides to indulge her, lifting the spoon from earlier to his lips and winding his tongue around it.

“ _Dude. DUDE._ No wonder he swooned from that kiss! The second you suck him off, he’s done.”

“Is. . .I mean. . .” Willow has never seen Maxwell so flustered, not even when she’d forced an “apology" kiss. “Is Higgsbury really. . .?”

“Hot for you? Probably wanking himself raw every night moaning your name? Uh, yeah, it’s super obvious. To like, everybody. Even _Wickerbottom_ was teasing him about it. Poor Abbs and Wenders, though. They’re kinda struggling with the whole ‘surrogate psycho dad is radiating unbridled lust for my weird psycho uncle and this was so much easier when we were all strangers and oh God the mental images I need to wash my brain' thing. We've all been there.”

Maxwell unconsciously folds his arms, looking. . .rather uncomfortable.

“What’s wrong? I kinda thought you’d be more. . .gloat-y about this, since you always act like you’re hot shit.”

“. . .I guess I'm not used to it. I don’t have to tell you my features are a bit. . .inelegant. My brother always looked much more put-together, whereas I was always rather gangly and awkward in appearance.”

“. . .Seriously? You’re dapper as hell, come on. And aren’t you guys twins, too? Wendy says you look a lot alike.”

“. . .not identical, but yes, we are.”

“And I know I tease you about having perfect dick-sucking lips, but seriously, I get why Wilson’s _dying_ to kiss you. Even _Warly_ said your lips were hot.”

Maxwell involuntary shields his mouth with a hand, his flush deepening.

“And Warly’s probably the hottest guy here. Plus you've got legs for days. And bitches would _kill_ for those cheekbones. I would. Goddamn.”

“A-Alright, alright, enough! We're getting sidetracked.” Maxwell attempts to compose himself. “May I have my cigar back, please?”

“You got it, boss.” She holds it out to him. “You know, Wilson’s constantly staring at your mouth, but _especially_ when you've got a cigar in.”

“What did I _just_ say.”

“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist. What’s next on the ‘Spooky Shit To Watch Out For’ checklist?”

“What did his eyes look like?” Maxwell blinks once, and the color of his eyes invert—the sclera are now black, and his pupils white. “Like this?”

“No, the whites stayed the same. But everything else was kinda. . .flame-y, if that makes sense?” She flicks her Lighter. “Like this. See how the flame is kinda flicker-y and quivery? Like that. Come to think of it, his hair looked like that, too. Like it was moving. Like fire does. But more Shadowy.”

“Huh. The hair's new.” Maxwell looks pensive. “Perhaps the demonic features manifest differently from person to person.”

“‘Demonic features?’”

“How would _you_ describe them?”

“Throne-y.”

“. . .I suppose that works.” Maxwell runs a Shadow claw through his hair. “ _Christ._ This isn’t good. The Fuel sensitivity was bad enough.

. . .I must say, though, you’re taking this rather well.”

“Could be the Garland. Could be shock. Could just be out of fucks to give after watching my best friend kill himself in the worst way possible and reliving my tragic past.”

“. . .Fair.”

“I have a question, though. About Ţ̴h̴̖ě̶͉m̷̫̓.”

“I'll answer what I can.”

“You and Wilson can’t really seem to describe Ţ̴h̴̖ě̶͉m̷̫̓ whenever any of us ask. Why?”

“It’s. . .difficult. T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ aren’t like Shadows, exactly. T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ possess no physical form. T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ are just sort of. . .present. Always there. Always watching. Always whispering in your ear.

If T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ _do_ have a physical form, then I've never seen it. Either T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ don’t have one, or it’s one that the human mind simply cannot comprehend. Or inhuman mind, as the case may be.

It’s how T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ are in general, really. The very idea of Ţ̴h̴̖ě̶͉m̷̫̓ is something so far removed from reality that one can’t put it to words. I'd once heard something to the effect of natives being unable to perceive the ships of colonizers looking for land to claim, simply because the concept of a ship was not part of their reality. Even though they were right in front of them, they may as well have been invisible. I imagine Higgsbury would know more, or could better explain the concept. He may be an inept buffoon, but he knows his theory. Even if it borders on the philosophical.”

Willow pets Mr. Skitts, who seems to enjoy the attention, though he keeps looking warily at Bernie. “I was hoping to get some answers, but I honestly don’t think I'm smart enough to follow along. This shit's way above my pay grade.”

“We are talking about Knowledge mortals were never meant to understand. Intelligence has nothing to do with it. On a related note, gentle reminder that Higgsbury has his _Medicinae Baccalaureus Baccalaureus Chirurgiae_ —making him a doctor of surgery—and a Master's in chemistry, and is the biggest idiot I have ever met.

So don’t sell yourself short. You’re smarter than you think. You’re shrewd, resourceful, intuitive, and streetwise. Quick on your feet, and an artful crafter of dick jokes.”

“Sorry not sorry about making soup come out of your nose. And. . .thanks.”

“Heh. The fire in your eyes has moved to your cheeks.”

“Oh, shut UP, you old fart!”

Maxwell laughs quietly. “You sound like Higgsbury, now.”

“ _You_ sound like you miss him.”

Maxwell clicks his tongue—in annoyance? Skepticism? Mockery?—and brings his cigar back to his lips. “Hardly.”

_“You miss him so much.”_

“ _Tch._ Can’t miss anyone when they won’t leave you the hell alone in the first place.”

“You’ve got it so bad for him it’s not even funny. Right, Mr. Skitts?”

The Shadow chirps.

“See? He agrees.”

Maxwell snorts.

“Heh. You look like a bull when you do that with a mouth full of smoke. Or maybe a dragon.”

“Mm. Wigfrid always likens me to a demon. As did Wendy, for a time.”

“You’re a lot alike. You and Wendy, I mean. She’s got a dramatic streak of her own. Eloquent, too. And she’s a talented little mage in her own right.”

“. . .I cannot believe I didn’t recognize my own niece.”

“Did you ever see her?”

“Only once. As an infant.

. . .I regret not visiting Jack more often.”

“. . .I'm sorry, Maxwell.”

“. . .What’s done is done.”

The two sit in silence for a moment.

“. . .can I ask one more question?”

“Shoot.”

“. . .what did T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ do to you? When you disobeyed Ţ̴h̴̖ě̶͉m̷̫̓?”

Maxwell’s face hardens, and his jaw sets.

“. . .I had to fracture my mind to survive. I spent over fifteen years learning to gradually revert back to a sane state over time without the use of food or items. Let’s leave it at that.”

“I'm sorry, I'm not trying to open old wounds. I'm just trying to understand what happened to you. . .and Wilson.

I have a theory about why Wilson’s been so fucked up. And I think I'm right. He was cryptic about it, but the way he responded. . .”

“Go on.”

“He refused to serve Ţ̴h̴̖ě̶͉m̷̫̓, because he didn’t want to hurt any of us. And T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ tortured him until he snapped.

. . .or came close, which is when Charlie showed up. But T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ aren’t finished with him. And T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ are going to break him if it’s the last thing T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ do.”

“T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒y̸͈̐ haven’t had enough time with T̵̞̿h̴̢̃e̵̩̒ir new toy. Yes, that’s a sound argument, I'd say.”

_But T̵͍͌̾h̷̡̧̩̬̻̱̹̹̹̃̔̇̐̈́͐̍̇̉͒̚͘ë̷̡̧͇̩̱̬͕̣̹̼̲̬̼̠̝́̎͋̆̿̅̇́͂̚͠͝ẏ̵̨̧̟̳̞̗̯͕́͆̀̌̍̿̈́̋͛͆̓͒̈́͂ͅ seem to have taken a genuine liking to you._

_In my opinion? To see how far they can push a naïve, idealistic, and relatively harmless idiot before he breaks. And to see what happens when he does._

“I had the same thought, in fact. Only. . .I hadn’t realized the extent of Higgsbury’s. . .condition. Strange, as the signs were all right in front of me, clear as day.”

“. . .Because you don’t want to acknowledge the role you played in his mind breaking.”

_I HATE YOU! I FUCKING HATE YOU! WILSON IS BROKEN AND IT’S ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT!_

“. . .he was already broken. I did not contribute to him experimenting on his peers.”

_Your scientist is defective. You need a new one._

“He took the Throne from you.”

Maxwell grits his teeth. “I never asked him to take the Throne.”

_It's your decision._

“You asked him to build the Door. Which led right to it. What the hell did you think was going to happen, Maxwell?”

“. . .if you are feeling better, Ms. Willow, I would like to be left alone. I am still rather tired.”

“Back to formalities, huh.” Willow stands, her own expression hard. “Thanks for being honest, at least for a little while. You stay here and wallow in your failure. I'm going to go clean up your mess, along with my dead friend's body. No one wanted to touch his Skeleton last time, so it’s probably still there.” She snatches the Umbrella from the hands of the waiting Puppet as she leaves. “I'll bring this back later. See ya, Mr. Skitts.”

Maxwell dismisses the Puppet and the Shadow.

Then he hurls the Codex Umbra across the Tent.

And the shroud of darkness returns.


End file.
